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INNING WINDS. 


CA Newel. 


BY 

WILLIS G. EMERSON. 

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“ Treat the Goddess like a modest fair, 

Not over dress nor leave wholly bare, 

Let not each beauty everywhere be spied, 
When half the skill is decently to hide.” 

Pope. 



COPY^TGHT, 1884 , BY 

. IV. Carleton & Co., Publishers, 

MDCCCLXXXV. 



iMertionatflg JMicatetr 


TO 

MY WIFE. 



PREFACE. 


Do good unto your fellow men by adding to their 
sum of human happiness. Win them from the cank- 
ering troubles of life, to while away a pleasant hour. 
Ever and always let your influence for good grow 
with the ripening of the years, as a circle widens 
and widens when a pebble is dropped on the face 
of smooth waters. 

Willis G. Emerson. 

Creston, Iowa, 

December 2 $th, 1884. 








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CONTENTS. 


Chapter Page 

I. Leroy Pembrooke. n 

II. The Inimitable Willets is Introduced 19 

III. Pen Leaves Home 31 

IV. A Well-Laid Scheme Thwarted — Old Hinchey Intro- 

duced 40 

V. Lin Brinkerhoff becomes a Student of Telegraphy. . . 49 

VI. The Inimitable in Trouble 58 

VII. A Midnight Visit to the Graveyard. 68 

VIII. Pen Learns his Father’s Story 76 

IX. The Escape from Old Hinchey. 85 

X. In which Tobs Learns of his Niece and Nephew 94 

XI. Fourteen Thousand Dollars Missing — The Inimitable 

Thrown in Jail 103 

XII. Dairyfield Farm . 113 

XIII. In which Burt Lester, the Detective, Commences 

Operations 123 

XIV. Old Acquaintances and New Friends 134 

XV. At Dr. Pullintwist’s Dental Rooms 145 

XVI. Burt Lester, the Detective, is Taken in 156 

[ix] 


X 


CONTENTS. 


Chapter Page 

XVII. Dan’l Webster Lawson, the Detective’s New Name. . 169 

XVIII. The Lost Trail 180 

XIX. The Detective Meets McGuffin 192 

XX. The Inimitable Interviews the Detective 203 

XXL The Detectives Visit the McGuffin Farm 217 

XXII. A Midnight Visit to the Cliff 229 

XXIII. The Double Tragedy at the Cliff 239 

XXIV. Basement Quarters in Gibbon’s Place 251 

XXV. The Detectives Return to Hampton — The Inimitable 

in more Trouble 262 

XXVI. The Inimitable has an Early Caller 272 

XXVII. Old Hinchey Followed to his Den in Gibbon’s Place. 284 

XXVIII. The New England Home 294 

XXIX. The Inimitable Turns Pugilist 306 

XXX. At Chalmer University 318 

XXXI. A Picnic in the Woods 329 

XXXII. The Inimitable’s Wedding 342 

XXXIII. Pen Visits his Old Hampton Home 352 

XXXIV. Lin Brinkerhoff’s First Disappointment 363 

XXXV. Three Villains Captured 371 

XXXVI. Parted Forever 380 

XXXVII. At Last 388 


WINNING WINDS. 


CHAPTER I. 

LEROY PEMBROOKE. 

O NCE upon a time, somewhere between a quarter 
and a half century ago, there lived a gentleman 
of moderate wants and limited means, named 
Leroy Pembrooke. We do not wish to infer that every 
one of limited means is fortunate enough to have mod- 
erate wants, but it so happened in this case. 

Leroy Pembrooke lived not many hundreds of miles 
from Cinapolis, one of the many thriving cities in our 
great Union. 

The little village where he received his weekly paper, 
and where he would have posted his letters, had he ever 
mailed any, we shall know as Hampton, a sparsely set- 
tled inland place with a few wooden stores, of olden date, 
and a few churches, with their tall, tapering steeples 
pointing heavenward. 

How long Pembrooke had lived there no one exactly 
knew — possibly ten or a dozen years ; where he came 
from no one knew or stopped to inquire. He had been 
so long at Hampton that he seemed one of its fixtures. 

Hampton itself was not more than a dozen or fifteen 
years old, while as to Pembrooke’s age no one pretended 
to know, — the dates on his full-bearded face said thirty- 
five at least. His possessions consisted of a few acres of 
land adjoining the village, which he yearly tilled. 

The stage-coach came to Hampton twice every week, 
and on the very afternoon of the day that our story 

[ 11 ] 


12 


LEROY PEMBROOKE. 


opens, a certain person did come to Hampton who had 
known Leroy Pembrooke years before. It was a lady of 
very prepossessing appearance, who came to teach the 
village school. Notwithstanding the change in Leroy 
Pembrooke’s appearance — the once smooth face, now 
full-bearded, — there was mutual recognition between the 
lady and himself the moment their eyes met, as she 
alighted from the stage-coach. 

Years before he had attended college at Covesville, 
and there had met Miss Betsey Goodsil, the new teacher, 
and was, in those college days, seemingly greatly attached 
to her. At that time she was a mere child in her teens, 
and readily believed all the pleasant words whispered to 
her by Leroy Pembrooke. He never told her where his 
home was, or anything of his people ; nor did he ever 
graduate with his class, but very suddenly, and very 
unceremoniously, took his departure without even so 
much as saying good-bye to Betsy Goodsil ; and to the 
day of her arrival at Hampton she had never heard aught 
of him. 

It might not be out of place to say that she thought 
of him very often ; for in him she saw her ideal. Possi- 
bly this accounted for her never having married. 

Her family was poor, and she was at last forced to 
believe he had deserted her for wealth. Possibly her 
solution was a true one ; possibly not. In less than a 
year afterward, however, he made Hampton his home, 
where he had resided ever since. 

About a week after Betsey Goodsil’s arrival, Leroy 
Pembrooke received a letter, which the postmaster de- 
clared was the first and only one Pembrooke had ever 
received since he came to Hampton. What news the let- 
ter contained or who it was from, remains to this day a 
mystery. But let us hope there will come a time in the 
unraveling of our story when the reader will know 
its contents. Soon after this, much to the surprise of 
everyone, Leroy Pembrooke took it into his head to 
marry. He no doubt could have won success with some 
blushing maiden of the village who was giggling in her 
teens, or with the merchant’s daughter, who was lan- 
guishing for a lover, but he see.med to care nothing for 


LEROY PEMBROOKE. 


13 


the one nor the other, but assiduously paid his atten- 
tions to Betsey Goodsil, whose early affections for him 
seemed to quickly rekindle, and in due course of time 
they were married. It is at least just to say that the 
marriage was one of pure attachment. We do not pre- 
sume to know whether they would not have married for 
position or for money had the chance presented itself 
prior to their meeting at Hampton ; but they seemed 
either to have had no such opportunity, or if they 
had, no one at Hampton knew of it. They contented 
themselves by doing the very wisest thing possible — 
marrying for the very love they had for one another, if 
we might judge from appearances. Very like two horse- 
racers who are out of funds and who meet by chance on 
some old, half-forgotten race-course. Neither have 
money to bet, hence nothing to lose, and when nothing 
is lost nothing is won. So they lead their spirited ani- 
mals toward the wire, side by side, and run for the very 
fascination the race itself affords them ; and such a race, 
as such a marriage, is invariably the most satisfactory in 
the end, as neither party feels cheated, nor complains of 
foul play. 

Leroy Pembrooke's married life commenced much as 
his single days had ended. No great change. The old 
house might have been repaired a little here and there 
to make it more homelike, but that was all. Year after 
year glided by, and as Leroy one day said to Betsey, the 
very years seemed to go by as the seasons used to. Thus 
time slipped noisely on until the hush and rural quiet of 
Hampton was broken by the hurry and confusion of 
building railways. Two roads were built through Hamp- 
ton in one year. One from the south-east, terminating 
in Chicago ; the other, called the “ Through Trunk 
Line,” from New York to St. Louis. 

Hampton was beautifully located on the banks of a 
little rocky stream, that ran, year after year, from early 
spring to late fall, telling the same noisy story, and all 
the time wearing its bed of smooth stones smoother and 
smoother. After the railroads came, the little stream 
was put to use. A dam was put across, and a large 
building erected which projected out over the waters and 


14 


LEROY PEMBROOKE, 


over the double doors in front the words “ Hampton 
Mills ” were painted in large letters. Then the old song 
of the babbling stream was gone and heard no more, but 
in its stead was heard the angry sputtering a,nd splash- 
ing of the waters as they went tumbling and falling, 
hurry-scurry, over the large wheel into the channel be- 
low, rushing along as if glad to get away from such a 
pent-up place. 

Strange as it may seem, the railroads did very little 
to improve Hampton. It was nothing but a way-station 
on both lines. Other towns and villages sprang up 
along the line, and, as the shop-keepers said, cut off 
their trade. Very few new buildings were erected, and 
the old ones remained unchanged, except to look more 
dingy as time went by. The same old creaking signs 
swung in front of the stores and shops which had been 
put up years before. The little wooden-colored cottage 
at the Suburb,* with the two giant oak trees near by, was 
the home of Leroy Pembrooke and his wife Betsey, 
who, good soul thfcat she was, had in due course of time 
borne unto him a son, who was christened by the fond 
father immediately after his arrival with the name of 
Penfield. 

“ Pebfield Pembrooke, my heir,” said Leroy, with 
considerable earnestness and warmth. But what he was 
to be heir to, a competency or poverty, he did not ex- 
plain. Perhaps he did not fully understand that ques- 
tion in his mind ; or it might have been that the elder 
Pembrooke referred to something far back of anything 
that was known at Hampton ; or, possibly, only referred 
to the few acres of land, which, year after year, he 
tilled. Whether it was the one or the other, all would 
some day belong to Pen. The nickname “ Pen ” was 
almost from the first given to the new arrival, “ because,” 
as Aunt Zurilda said, “it was decidedly unpoetic ; and 
then there were entirely too many syllables to pronouce 
to say ‘ Penfield.’ It might do when he got to be a man, 
but now he didn’t amount to enough, and she doubted 
mightily if he ever improved.” 

Aunt Zurilda was Mrs. Pembrooke’s sister. Possibly 
she had not seen more than thirty winters, but it was 


LEROY PEMBROOKE. 


15 


hardly possible to think she was younger. Her angular 
features were beginning to wrinkle ; in figure she was 
rather spare, — in fact, inclined to be bony ; her face 
was thin and weazen, the lower part of which projected 
out and ended in a sharp chin ; her nose was rather too 
large for her face, and had an inclination to turn up ; 
and you would have known at once she had cheek bones 
by their noticeable prominence. The time, if ever, when 
she would have passed as handsome was certainly long 
years ago. It was said that years before, when she was 
quite young, she had a bitter experience in a love affair, 
the poetry of which was still fresh and green in the 
spinster’s heart. In fact, she had a hobby (a weakness 
some thought) to this day for poetry. She had come to 
Hampton only a short time before, and seemed angry to 
think she was there. By the way she looked at Leroy 
one would have thought she was angry because he had 
married Betsey, and she certainly was indignant to think 
the new arrival was not a girl; “ and the name ‘ Penfield ’ 
too,” she said, “ was distressingly unpoetic ; in fact, 
simply horrid.” 

At the very hour of the same day that Penfield Pem- 
broke came into this world an event of great similarity 
happened in another part of Hampton. It was at the 
home of a Mr. Brinkerhoff, and the infant had been 
given the name of Hamlin at once. As the child said 
nothing against the name, the elder Brinkerhoff 
remarked that he considered his silence on the subject 
to be a good and sufficient evidence of the acceptance of 
said name ; accordingly, early the following morning, 
the family Bible was brought forward, and the name 
“ Hamlin Brinkerhoff,” with date and fact of his arrival, 
duly recorded. While this was being done, Leroy Pem- 
brooke was chronicling the facts relative to Penfield’s 
arrival. Thus two were born into the world at the same 
time who were destined to pursue widely different lives. 
Which is the preferable life for the rising young to imi- 
tate, we leave the reader to decide when he shall have 
accompanied us to the end. 

In time they grew to be healthy, care-free boys, and 
great companions, both at play and at school, but very 


16 


LEROY PEMBROOKE. 


different in many ways. Pen was rather small of his 
age, timid and retiring. The evening stories his mother 
told him of privations and hardships which she, in 
younger days, had met with, and which are so prevalent 
in the big world of cities, caused him to shrink from 
such tales of misery, and his young, overflowing soul 
shed tears of sympathy, causing him to become far more 
attached to his home, and especially to his bed-room, 
where his books were kept in a box which he had fast- 
ened with his own hands to the wall. 

With Hamlin Brinkerhoff, or Lin, as he was called, 
it was quite different. The tales of hunger, hardships, 
and dire poverty were listened to by him with all the 
attention given them by young Pembrooke, yet he heard 
them differently, and he could deduce from them but two 
facts, which he termed key-notes, the first of which was, 
that to be happy one must possess the luxuries of high 
life, and the second, the luxuries of life are purchasable 
with money. In short, he considered riches the only true 
source of happiness and power ; that to acquire wealth 
was proper, no matter by what method, so it was not dis- 
covered felony ; that all things else were subordinate to 
money. Nor did he confine himself to theory alone, or 
permit his faculties to rust in mere abstract speculations. 
Even when in the primary schools he commenced prac- 
ticing as a gainer of goods by speculation and usury. 
His capital stock consisted of marbles, slate-pencils, 
jack-knives, etc. He did not confine himself to charging 
interest at even usurious rates, but usually succeeded in 
keeping the entire principal, and the boy who traded or 
borrowed of Lin Brinkerhoff was fortunate to retain ten 
percent, of his original stock of school-boy possessions. 
At this writing, we know of certain money-mongers, who 
seem to do business by the same rule, which is certainly 
easy enough and simple to comprehend. It is, make a 
dollar earn a dollar, though the new dollar be taken 
from the widow’s mite. 

Notwithstanding all these defects in Lin’s character, 
it can not be said his reputation was bad, either with lbs 
teacher at school or with the people of the village gener- 
ally. At school lie was studious, and learned rapidly. 


LEROY PEMBKOOKE. 


17 


In his books he saw an advantage over ignorance, and 
he was ambitious to stand on the vantage ground. While 
out of school, he was praised by his teacher; and old men, 
who ought to have known better, would laugh at his 
keeness, and say, “ Lin will take care of himself ; he 
will win his way,” and many other such remarks, insig- 
nificant, perhaps, within themselves, yet meaning every- 
thing toward encouraging in the boy a disposition that 
was by nature his greatest enemy. 

Little Pen was an apt and ready scholar, and read 
much besides his class books. He loved to ramble 
through the quaint old village, and down the lanes 
among the shade trees to the ever-talking brook, among 
the large, leafy oaks, and away still further into the deep 
woods. He had an interest in all these — a bond of at- 
tachment, to him, a kind of kinship, growing day by day 
and year by year stronger and stronger, and in his after 
years only, can we see how strong his love for these old 
haunts of childhood really was. 

Years before, when these boys were but babes, the 
guns at Fort Sumpter echoed over the Republic, sound- 
ing the tocsin of war, marking the end and the com- 
mencement of an old and a new epoch. Questions that 
the ballot-box and the eloquence of the learned statesmen 
of the day could not or did not settle, were handed over 
to marshaled armies to settle in cruel battle. Mr. Brin- 
kerhoff was one of the first who responded to his coun- 
try’s call. He went away, with many others, on a certain 
summer’s day, under the flaunting flag of his country, 
which kissed the breezes alike of morning and night, 
keeping step to the stirring strains of music. He went 
away, but he never returned. His fate was the story of 
thousands of others who fell on the field of battle 
and sleep in unmarked graves. The cruelties of war 
robbed Lin of a father in his infancy, and he had never 
known the counsel of a father’s deep-felt interest. 

Almost a dozen years of these boys lives have now 
flown by; heretofore they had been uneventful, but now 
there w^as to be a change. 

In the following spring, on a clear, bright day, Pen 
was told that he was to be taken to Covesville to visit a 


18 


LEROY PEMBR'OOKE. 


few days with his Aunt Zurilda. He hardly knew why 
he was going. He certainly had never formed any great 
attachment for his aunt, as she always seemed so sour 
and crabbed when she visited them ; but as it was his 
first trip away from home there was a novelty in the 
drive, to which the young are always susceptible. Had 
Pen been more observant of the peculiar line of goods, 
tiny articles of wear which the sewing girl had been en- 
gaged on for the past month, lie would have known that 
another heir was expected ; but he did not know. He 
only knew that he was going to Aunt Zurilda’s. His 
mother had never parted with him before, and when she 
bade him good-by, Pen saw two great tears trembling 
on her cheeks; and as she stooped down to kiss him they 
fell on his face, and as they did so they seemed to loose 
the fount of his own tender feelings, and he sobbed out- 
right. And when he got down to the little gate in front, 
where was hitched the horse and carriage, he felt as if 
he must, and did, go back along the graveled walk and 
again kiss his mother good-by, and tell her he would 
soon come back again. After this he felt better, and even 
called good-by to Lin with right good cheer, as they 
passed him just as they "were turning into the old road 
that led away into the country. He went away from the 
home he had always known, and known as. he would 
never know it again. After this there came a night when 
preparations were hastily made for the reception of Leroy 
Pembrooke’s second heir, and on the following morning 
when darkness gave way to light, and the dawn bright- 
ened into day, clusters and knots of figures might have 
been seen conversing on the street corners and in front 
of the shops in silent whispers. There had been a birth 
at Mr. Pembrooke’s, and there had been a death. A baby 
girl had been born, hence there was rejoicing, but it was 
changed to weeping. The infant girl had scarcely said 
to those around, “ I live,” when the chord of life was 
broken and the mother’s spirit joined those of kindred 
gone before. The baby’s life commenced as the mother’s 
ceased. Within that little cottage was the smiling June 
and the bleak December ; the budding flowers and the 
fading leaves ; the fresh-blown daisies and the withered 


WTLLETS IS INTRODUCED. 


19 


grass ; the morning and the night ; the new and the 
old; the beginning and the end; all were there. All so 
strangely new ; so real, so unreal ; so expected, so un- 
expected. 

The little baby was carefully cared for, and the last 
sad rites for the mother performed. Leroy Pembrooke 
was broken-hearted. The strong man of a few days be- 
fore was no more, but instead a weak and exhausted man 
who took his bed to find a rest this world could not give 
him. 

“ Such things must happen,” remarked an old friend. 
“ It is not right to rebel against Divine Providence,” 
said the clergyman ; and the neighbors told him he 
must live for his children, but to all these entreaties he 
was seemingly deaf, and turned languidly and exhausted 
on his pillow. He called for Pen. “ My boy Pen, where 
is he ?” and then he talked incoherently of times long, 
long past, when he himself was a happy, roving boy at 
school. 

Pen and Aunt Zurilda fortunately arrived, and soon 
the latter was told the sad news. And then Pen was 
taken to his father, whose fit of wandering seemed tem- 
porarily past, and on poor sobbing Pen’s head he be- 
stowed his blessing, and told him of his infant sister and 
bade him live and care for her, and commended both to 
One who never deserts the fatherless children, and then 
he asked to be alone with his son, and when they all 
withdrew he whispered a secret to the boy and bade him 
keep it sacredly. Then, turning his face on his pillow, 
he fell into a peaceful, dreamless sleep. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE INIMITABLE WILLETS IS INTRODUCED. 

L EROY PEMBROOKE slept in the little church- 
yard at Hampton, by the side of a new-made 
mound where his life-companion had been laid 
to rest. The church was an old time-worn structure and 


20 


WILLETS IS INTRODUCED. 


the painted glass was ragged with age, like an old man 
in his dotage, so much of the paint here and there had 
been chipped off by the ruthless hand of time. Just back 
of the church, among the tufted grasses, were the tomb- 
stones, so white and so suggestive of quiet repose. Some 
of the mounds were green with velvety grasses ; others 
lined about with mossy shells from the sea ; others richly 
decked with fragrant flowers, while others still were un- 
marked by headstones and weeded over, neglected and 
almost forgotten. How true it has been said : Life is a 
passing shadow ; ’tis like the shadow of a bird in flight, 
so hurriedly, in many cases, does it pale and pale from 
our memories away ! 

At the sacred altar of the church the prattling child 
receives baptism, and later bows over the communion 
table. Time rolls on, and at last there comes a joyful 
morn when the old bell rings out clear and happy, and 
before this same altar the marriage vows are breathed 
while the organ peals forth its cheerful notes of joy. 
Time passes away, and at last there comes a time when 
the muffled bell tolls forth the solemn notes of death, 
and the once child is borne softly and slowly down the 
aisle out to an open grave, while the organ breathes a 
measured dirge and sobs a requiem over the lifeless 
clay. Thus life and death follow in each other’s wake. 

Leroy Pembrooke’s n.arriage had been a happy one. 
So, also, let us hope, their spirits, in the other world 
where doubt is unknown, will commune as only conge- 
nial spirits can. 

If there was any hidden secret in his heart it remained 
only with himself, unless he had parted with it on his 
death-bed. No wife could ask for a more considerate 
and attentive husband than he had been. 

Let us now follow little Pen. He is an orphaned boy ; 
his legacy, a baby sister and a few acres of land, worn 
out by long tilling. 

The next morning but one after the funeral ceremo- 
nies were over, which marked the close of Leroy Pem- 
brooke’s life, little Pen was summoned into the little 
tucked-up parlor of his old home by his Aunt Zurilda. 

The spinster was so upright and stiff that there was a 


WILLETS IS INTRODUCED. 


21 


noticeable space between her back and the back of the 
chair ; her arms folded across her bony bosom ; her lips 
tightly drawn ; her eyebrows slightly elevated, causing 
many temporary wrinkles to add themselves to the army 
of permanent ones. She looked hard at the boy as he 
came in, and her every expression seemed to say, “ 1 am 
a very important person, very indeed, and have been 
lawfully recognized as such, and now I must commence 
rightly/’ Accordingly she addressed the boy, and said 
in a rather brusque and snappish style : 

“ Pen, I am your guardian !” 

My what, aunt ?” the boy inquired. 

“ Guardian, your guardian ! Do ye hear ?” 

Pen signified that he did, but his confused looks 
would have convinced any one but his Aunt Zurilda that 
he did not understand. 

“ I am,” said the spinster, “ going to bind you out. 
Do ye hear that ?” 

Pen mumbled out that he did, and the spinster con- 
tinued : 

“ Your father left mighty little property, not worth 
much, and it is mortgaged. Do ye hear ?” 

Again the boy nodded an affirmative reply, although 
the whole conversation was Greek to him. His aunt 
was terrifying him by her stiffness, but he finally sum- 
moned courage enough to timidly ask: 

“ Will I go to school any more, aunt ?” 

“ Perhaps you will, boy, in the winter time,” the spin- 
ster replied, “ if you are not too smart, and don’t get 
above your business ; but in the summer time you will 
work for your board and clothes. You have had entirely 
too much of this book and school business, leastways, in 
my opinion.” 

“ After dinner,” she continued, “ I will take you to 
see your little sister, and to-morrow morning you will 
go away from Hampton and be put to work. Do ye 
hear ?” 

It is highly probable that he did hear, and heard with 
sorrow. 

It is hard to tell just how much longer this amiable 
spinster would have continued to lay down the law, had 


22 


WILLETS IS INTRODUCED. 


not a vigorous rap sounded at the front door, which was 
quickly responded to by Aunt Zurilda with a “ Come in,” 
and a moment later a tall, slim, angular, big-footed, big- 
jointed individual stepped into the room ; and as he did 
so his hat came off with military precision, which plainly 
told the spinster that the stranger knew he was in the 
presence of a woman far superior to the common herd 
of mortals. 

“Have I the pleasure,” said the newcomer, “of 
addressing Miss Goodsil?” He carefully emphasized 
the word “ Miss.” 

The spinster dropped a courtesy, and faintly smiled 
as she answered affirmatively. 

“Ah, this is an honor,” said he, at the same time 
drawing forth a letter from his pocket, which he handed 
over to the now smiling spinster. And while she reads 
we will take a look at the stranger’s face. It is slim, like 
his body ; a very large mouth ; a faint attempt at a mus- 
tache is discoverable on his lip, which adds to his already 
sandy complexion ; short side whiskers, very like his 
mustache in color, and very dwarfed looking, while his 
nose is very prominent and aquiline and very high at 
the bridge, and then turned downward toward the face, 
as if it was determined not to turn up at anything in the 
wide world. The whole expression of his countenance 
seemed humorous and glowing, which expression was 
noticeably strengthened by his close-cut sandy hair. 

The letter he had given to the spinster was an intro- 
ductory one from a mutual city acquaintance, and, as 
the spinster’s city friends were few, she prized them 
very highly, if for no other reason than because they were 
so easily counted ; and she paid due deference to their 
opinions. A letter introducing such a very appreciative 
appearing individual, at once, and without further cere- 
mony, commanded her greatest courtesy. 

It may be well for us to explain that the spinster’s 
city acquaintance had not only given the new comer an 
introductory letter, but had also given him a page of the 
spinster's early history, posting him on her poetic hobby. 
Accordingly, as soon as the spinster concluded reading 


WILLETS IS INTRODUCED. 


23 


the letter, she extended her bony hand and said in her 
blandest tone : 

“Mr. Willets, I welcome you to Hampton ; ” and be- 
fore Mr. Willets could reply, she turned to Pen, and 
bade him leave the room. Perhaps she did not want 
the boy to know what a smiling countenance she could 
wear, even when a congenial spirit flitted within the halo 
of her disc. 

Pen withdrew ; and as the door closed, Mr. Edward 
Willet’s mouth opened. 

“Miss Goodsil,” said he, “I thank you from the 
innermost recesses of my heart for this unlooked-for 
welcome.” 

She nodded and smiled, and he continued : 

“ Never before have I been so far West. I felt that I 
was coming to a land where the congenial meeting of 
poetic spirits was unknown. Alas ! how happily have I 
been disappointed since coming into this room/ 7 

“Ah! Mr. Willets, how did you now that I doted so 
much on poetry ? — in fact, lived with my thoughts in a 
poetic world ?” 

“ My dear Miss Goodsil, if I may be permitted to 
address you in such familiar terms,” (she was smiling 
her approval, and he continued), “there was a time 
when life to me was a happy May-day ; no storms, no 
clouds ; I was the household pet. Ah ! Miss Goodsil, I 
was the household treasure.” Here he applied his hand- 
kerchief to his face, and continued : 

“ But that was a long time since, and its memory to 
me is as the faded rose. I lived in poetic muse ; but 
alas, that was long, long ago.” 

“ Mr. Edward, — I beg pardon, — Mr. Willets, 1 should 
have said.” 

“Miss Goodsil,” said Willets, “I cannot grant your 
pardon. Call me Edward, always Edward. If you only 
knew what hallowed associations it brings back of that 
rosy, rosy, rosy existence.” 

Here the handkerchief came in play again and pre- 
vented him from speaking further. 

“Ah, Mr. Willets,” said the spinster, “how much 
your experience is like my own. If I only had words to 


24 


WILLETS IS INTRODUCED. 


express my feelings and explain to you how many I 
meet that are unpoetic, cold, and unappreciative people 
of the world.” 

“ Don’t, don’t,” interposed the inimitable Edward ; 

“ don’t tell me of that which precipitated me from a 
lap of luxury out into a barren world. In those good 
old days I lived with the poets and basked in the sun- 
shine of happiness.” 

The spinster had just nerved herself up to a reply, 
when the- servant opened the door from the adjoining 
room, and, in a sonorous tone, said: 

“ Beg your pardon, miss. Lady wants to see you. 
Cannot wait a moment longer.” 

“ Mr. Willets,” said the spinster, “will you please 
excuse me for a moment, until I see what this unappre- 
ciative, unpoetic woman of the world wants?” 

“ My dear Miss Goodsil,” said Willets, “ don’t men- 
tion it, don’t mention it. I know the stern demands of * 
duty, how they bring us in contact with the unsympa- 
thetic and unpoetic. Go on, Miss Goodsil, go on. You 
carry my deepest sympathy with you/’ 

Miss Zurilda bowed as she smiled her happy approval 
of the inimitable’s words. 

“Well,” observed Willets, as she withdrew, “this is 
deucedly pleasant ; it is, by George ! It’s about time I 
struck her for board and lodging ; that’s what I came for. 
Mighty pleasant to run a bill with some one of a poetic 
nature. I know how to talk ’em down when pay-day 
comes and finances are low, as, unfortunately, they 
usually are with me. There was a time when it was dif- 
ferent ; then I had plenty of money and no debts. At 
the present writing the tables are slightly turned ; now I 
have plenty of debts and no cash ; but, fortunately, my 
debts don’t bother me very much, neither do I complain 
of my lot. Wish I could say the same of my creditors ; 
but they seem to be very much dissatisfied with the credit 
system.” 

Here Willets consulted his time-keeper, and observed 
that it was mighty near dinner time, and he hoped his 
name would be among the list of invited guests. At 
this point of his reverie Miss Goodsil returned, and as 


WILLETS IS IOTBODUCED. 


25 


she came into the room her face changed from its long- 
accustomed sour expression to one of smiles. 

“ Mr. Willets,” she said, as she advanced toward him, 
“I am going to ask a favor of you, and you must not 
refuse me.” 

“ My dear Miss Goodsil,” said the Inimitable, “how 
can I refuse anything you request ? ” 

“Ah,” said the spinster, “you are so kind. The 
request I have to make is that you remain to dinner 
with us.” 

Willets’ mouth almost watered as he hastily said : 

“ My dear Miss Goodsil, I can only repeat what I 
have just said ; how can I refuse anything you request ? 
And, by-the-by, Miss Goodsil,” said he, “I had almost 
forgotten, so charmingly have I been entertained, to 
state the object of my visit.” 

“Mr. Willets,” said the smiling spinster, “you com- 
pliment me too highly ; you do, indeed.” 

“ My dear lady,” said Willets, “ permit me to differ 
with you. You are a woman of great superiority ; one 
who can appreciate, and one who should be appreciated. 
Little do you care for a cold, hard, practical world ; 
little do you care for its filthy lucre, and. if I mistake 
not, the soul-enrapturing sentiments of a single poetic 
effusion has a greater charm for you than the jingling 
of silver and gold.” 

“ Them’s my feelings, Mr. Willets, indeed they are. 
How I wish I could express my feelings as you do.” 

“I must say,” said Willets, “that you are rather call- 
ing the turn on me in the exuberance of your compli- 
ments. The object of my visit, Miss Goodsil, is to 
obtain board and lodging at your house, if, in asking, 
I am not presuming too much on your kindness. Of 
course, I shall expect to compensate you liberally. My 
only fear is, that you will refuse to accept from me suf- 
ficient funds, to reimburse you for the additional ex- 
pense of having me in your family.” 

“ Mr. Willets,” said the spinster, “I was just thinking 
this morning that it might be well for me to look around 
and obtain a boarder. My home is quite common, as 
2 


26 


WILLETS IS INTRODUCED. 


you can plainly see, but such as it is you are welcome to 
at a dollar a week — ” 

Here Miss Zurilda was seized with a violent fit of 
sneezing that almost ruffed the calm of her poetic tran- 
quillity. She had hardly recovered herself when the 
Inimitable Willets had the floor and was preparing to 
crown his former efforts with a master stroke of elo- 
quence, but the spinster interrupted him, and con- 
tinued : 

“As I was saying, Mr. Willets, such as we have you 
are welcome to, at a dollar a week less than what they 
will charge you at the hotel.” 

“Hem! Just so,” said Willets, a little bit discon- 
certed with the terms ; “ but, my dear Miss Goodsil,” 
said he, “are you quite sure you can afford to make me 
such a liberal offer ? ” 

“ Quite sure, my dear Mr. Willets, and I beg of you 
not to refer to it again. ” 

“ Your wish, my charming Miss Goodsil, shall be 
complied with. Never again will I refer to the subject.” 
And the inimitable Edward Willets kept his word to the 
letter. 

“You have not informed me, Mr. Willets,” said the 
spinster, “ whether your coming to Hampton was a mat- 
ter of pleasure or business.” 

“ Business, my dear Miss Goodsil ; business I am 
a sort of under-official of both lines of railways at this 
place.” 

“ Indeed,” ejaculated the spinster. “ How pleasant.” 

“I find it so, I assure you,” continued Willets. 

“ With this brain,” said he, putting one big-jointed 
finger to his sandy-coated head, “ I grasp, and with this 
hand record the electric sparks of intelligence, as they 
flash over the wires from far-off cities and diverse vil- 
lages along the line. In short, my dear Miss Goodsil, I 
am by nature a gentleman ; by birth and education a 
slave to the poetic muse ; by sad experience an individ- 
ual precipitated from a home where I once was the 
household pet — the household treasure — into a cold, un- 
sympathetic, uncaring, unpoetic world ; and by profes- 


WILLETS IS INTRODUCED. 


27 


sion a telegraph operator ; and have been officially 
assigned to the Hampton office as night official.” 

“ I see, Mr. Willets, that you, like myself, are an im- 
portant person. I beg you to excuse the word import- 
ant when I use it in speaking of myself'” 

“ Can’t excuse you, my dear lady. It was highly ap- 
propriate and in perfect harmony with the eternal fitness 
of things,” said the Inimitable. 

“ Well, to proceed,” said the spinster, “I have lately, 
very lately, lost my sister, Mrs. Pembrooke, and to make 
the situation more trying and awkward, if such a thing 
could be, her husband died, too — only survived her a 
few short days and left in my care two children, one a 
smart little baby girl, to whom I have given my own 
name, Zurilda (and something tells me the little thing 
has a poetic soul of the highest type); the other child 
was the boy you saw in the room when you first came ; 
and in him I can only see a repetition of the parent plant, 
his father — a cold, hard, calculating man of the world. 
I also have been appointed administratrix of the estate, 
and guardian of the two children.” 

At this juncture Aunt Zurilda paused from sheer ex- 
haustion ; and as Willets had had quite a recess, he was 
fresh with another burst of eloquence. 

“ My dear Miss Goodsil, I think I understand the sit- 
uation. Your deceased brother-in-law was destitute of a 
poetic soul, and this lad, his son, is likewise destitute of 
that enobling attribute — a poetic inclination. Your de- 
ceased sister has left a charming infant girl, to whom you 
have given your name. Ah, what greater love could you 
show ! This alone, to m)^ mind, is conclusive evidence 
that she is destined to a bright future and will eventually 
develop into a poetic star of rare magnitude, the lustre 
of which may be dimmed somewhat by your own poetic 
presence. The law,” continued he, “has appointed you 
to certain trusts. It is but a just recognition of your su- 
perior ability, and is in true poetic harmony with the 
eternal fitness of things.” 

A knock at the door prevented a reply to the Inimit- 
able’s flowery speech, and the servant announced that 
dinner was ready. 


28 


WILLETS IS INTRODUCED. 


“How swiftly the morning has passed away,” ob- 
served the spinster, as they left the little tucked up par- 
lor and entered the dining room, where they found the 
cloth spread and dinner in readiness. 

“ Ah, Miss Goodsil, how swiftly the hours go by when 
congenial spirits meet. To me the morning has been 
like the rosy days of long ago, but their memory has long 
since faded from me like a receding echo.” 

Aunt Zurilda’s smiling face plainly told Willets that 
his words were highly agreeable ; but when she turned 
her eyes in a scrutinizing way toward the boy, the smile 
left it, and the rigid expression, so common to her, reap- 
peared. She scanned Pen’s nose and face to see if he 
had performed the necessary ablutions. He seemed to 
pass muster, and the dinner proceeded very pleasantly. 
Increasing interest manifested itself between Willets and 
the spinster as the conversation kept up during the din- 
ner hour. At last they arose from the table, and Mr. 
Edward Willets took his departure, with the understand- 
ing that he would become Miss Zurilda’s boarder the 
following day. 

Immediately after Willets’ departure Aunt Zurilda and 
Pen started for Mrs. Brinkerhoff’s. That kind lady had 
cared for Pen’s infant sister since their mother’s death. 
The spinster’s thoughts were full of Mr. Edward Willets-, 
and she concluded to ask Pen how he liked the gentlemen 
who had dined with them. In reply the boy unconscious- 
ly raised his aunt’s indignation by saying he thought 
the man talked too much at the table. He had no 
sooner made the remark than he felt two bony hands 
grasp his shoulders, and he was forthwith given a vigor- 
ous shaking up. 

“ What do you mean ?” cried his aunt, “ by speaking 
so disrespectful of one of the finest gentlemen who 
ever came to Hampton? He is a gentleman ; a perfect 
gentleman! Do ye hear ?” 

“ I do hear, aunt,” said Pen, as his eyes filled with 
tears, “ but I had no idea he was such a nice gentleman 
or I would not have said what I did.” 

“ What are you crying about ?” said his aunt, very 
sternly. 


WILLETS IS INTRODUCED. 


29 


“ I wish/' said he, between his sobs, “ that you would 
not be so cross to me, and would let me go to school. ” 

“Ha ! I see what you are up to. I understand your 
dodge, but it won’t work, if I know myself, and I think 
I do. Your father and mother always did baby you 
mighty near to death, and spoiled you almost com- 
pletely, and it is me, your Aunt Zurilda, who has got to 
look after you and your little sister from now on.” 

By this time they were at Mrs. Brinkerhofif’s. The 
spinster never paused until she was well into the house, 
and then turned with military tread, “ right wheel,” and 
stood face to face with kind, motherly Mrs. Brinkerhoff, 
whose good-natured smile was the first sunshine that 
had fallen on Pen since his parents death. 

“ You wanted to see your little sister, did you not?” 
said she. Pen answered that he did, and forthwith the 
shawls were drawn aside from the bundle on her lap, 
and there lay his tiny, baby sister. 

Pen bent down and kissed his little sister affection- 
ately, and said : 

“ I wish to name her Bertha^” 

“You wish what?” said his aunt with some surprise, 
and with a tone of decided severity in her voice. 

“He said,” interposed good, kind Mrs. Brinkerhoff, 
“ that he would like to name her Bertha.” 

“Bertha!” exclaimed his aunt, “whatever put that 
into the boy's head ? He is just like his father, — wholly 
destitute of poetic soul. I have already,” she continued, 
“selected the name Zurilda for the child, having given 
her my own name. What more could I do ?” 

This last interogatory was addressed to Mrs. Brinker- 
hoff, who in reply said that Bertha Zurilda would be a 
very pretty name for the child, and she said it in such a 
diplomatic tone that the spinster concluded to argue the 
case no further ; and so it was then and there settled 
that Bertha Zurilda should be the child’s name. 

Soon after this they took their departure, and re- 
turned home. The evening wore quickly away ; and 
soon after supper Pen withdrew to his little bed-room 
for his last night’s sleep at his old home. 

The day had been warm and sultry, but toward even- 


80 


WILLETS IS INTEODUCED. 


ing, black, lowering clouds overcast the heavens, and the 
wind began blowing a regular gale. He drew his chair 
to the low window to look out. It was growing very 
dark, and the wind seemed desperate as it shook the very 
sides of the house ; an occasional mutter of thunder 
greeted his ears above the confusion made by the wind. 
Then the heavens would light up ever and anon, and at 
such times he could plainly see the two great oaks that 
stood near the window. The]' seemed angry or deeply 
grieved, and bent their huge tops to one another until 
their limbs would intermingle and strip the leaves from 
off their swinging branches. They seemed to be whisp- 
ering to one another ; planning some revenge or lament- 
ing some great sorrow. Then the wind would dwindle 
its fury away until not a breath seemed moving ; and at 
such times these two great trees stood motionless and 
still like sentinels in repose. 

Suddenly the wind came on again with greater vio- 
lence than before, and these two monster trees fell into a 
wrathful fury, tossing and throwing their great arms of 
limbs up and down, swaying to and fro, and bending 
together like two great giants grappling in mortal 
strife. It made Pen shudder to look at them, so he drew 
the curtain down and sought his pillow, fancying as he did 
so that the trees were not angry, but were vvrithing in pain 
and grief because they had been spared to witness his 
own great sorrow. He listened to the torrents of rain 
beating against his window until he fell asleep. 

When he awoke next morning the sun was trying to 
shine in his room. He raised the curtain, and its broad, 
warm rays shone in. It was a beautiful morning. The 
birds were singing gaily, and a fox-squirrel was chirping 
and barking from his perch far up amid the branches of 
one of the oaks that had been so violent the night be- 
fore. 


PEN LEAVES HOME. 


31 


CHAPTER III. 


PEN LEAVES HOME, 


HE promise made by Aunt Zurilda to Pen, that he 



should be bound out, was carried into effect. The 


-** papers had all been signed, and Pen was put into 
the stage coach, the same old vehicle that years before 
had brought his mother to Hampton. 

Orders were given to the driver to set him down at 
the Mills, some twenty miles away, where the farmer, a 
Mr. McGuffin, was to meet him. 

It so happened that the inimitable Mr. Willets con- 
cluded to take a short trip into the country by the morn- 
ing stage, and walk back. No doubt it was with a view 
of communing with the solemn grandeur of the deep 
wild woods, where he could feast his overflowing poetic 
soul on the sweet odors of the growing flowers and the 
leafy trees. 

Lin Brinkerhoff was at the stage office when Pen 
took his leave, and he seemed really sorry to part with 
his old playmate. 

Aunt Zurilda’s parting words were an admonition to 
Pen “ not to be too smart, and get above his business. 
Do ye hear?” she inquired. 

Pen said he did, while the tears flowed thick and fast 
down his cheeks. 

The spinster then turned to Mr. Willets, whom she 
had not seen since breakfast, and, with her sweetest 
smile, said: 

“ My dear Mr. Willets, this is one of my sacred 
duties I owe to the memory of my deceased sister. If 
the boy only had a spark, a single spark, in his whole 
being of poetic life, how different would I feel at this 
parting ; but no, he is prosy, practical, and wholly des- 
titute of those higher and finer attributes of the soul.” 

The Inimitable had just brought his right hand up 
and was measuring off, with his big-jointed index finger, 
the concluding remarks of the spinster preparatory to a 


32 


PEN LEAVES HOME. 


burst, of eloquence, when the stage driver shouted out, 
“All aboard!” and Willets had only time to say, “ Ah, 
Miss Goodsil, ’tis true, ‘tis true, , tis a pity ’tis true.” Even 
this was said over his shoulder, as he clung on behind 
the stage. The spinster thought she heard him say some- 
thing about “ The memory of it, to him, would be as the 
faded rose,” but she was not certain, and wrestled with 
indecision on this point all the way back to the cottage, 
never bestowing a single thought on Pen. 

Willets swung inside the coach, and found Pen and 
himself to be the only occupants. 

“ Come, my boy,” said Willets, “cheer up ; you must 
not be downhearted and give way to the mellowing in- 
fluence of tears.” 

“I can’t help it,” he sobbed, “my aunt never said 
good-by, or seemed to care whether she ever saw me 
again or not.” 

“ Let me see,” said the Inimitable, “ your name is 
Pembrooke ?” 

“Yes, sir,” said the boy, “ Penfield Pembrooke, but 
they call me Pen, for short.” 

“ Where was your father from, Pen, my boy, if I may 
be permitted to address you on such familiar terms, and 
ask such pointed questions.” 

“ I know,” said Pen, who had now in a measure ceased 
his sobbing, “ but I must not tell.” 

“ What!” said Willets, “a mystery, is it a mystery? 
Look here, my young, congenial companion, tell me— is 
it a mystery ?” 

“ Yes, sir, it is,” said Pen, “my father told me lots of 
things that I am never to tell to anybody ; not just yet, 
anyway.” 

“My little man,” said Willets, “ come here to me. 
There, sit on my lap and you will not be shook up. Pen, 
my dear boy, I like you. There is something about you 
that reminds me of my own rosy existence before I ceased 
to be the pet of a loving household. Now I dare say, 
Pen, you was your father’s pet, wasn’t you ?” 

“Yes, sir, and my poor mamma’s too,” said he, and 
his lips commenced quivering as he thought of the last 
time he saw his fond mother. 


PEN LEAVES HOME. 


33 


“ Don’t, don’t, cry, my boy, don’t. It is wholly con- 
trary to the harmony of the eternal fitness of things. 
Now, my boy, I am from a New England State my- 
self, and I know of a family there by the name of Pem- 
brooke.” 

The boy looked up quickly with a flushed face. 

“ Yes, I know them, and what’s more, I know pretty 
Kitty Pembrooke. In short, my dear youthful compan- 
ion, she it is above all others who wields my destiny in 
her every look and word. You understand me. Pen, 
my boy; I am desperately and unreclaimedly in love 
with ” 

“ With Kitty Pembrooke ? ” said Pen. 

“ Bless your young heart, no,” said the Inimitable. 
“Not with Kitty Pembrooke, but with her friend and 
companion, Cinderilla Tobias. Now, Cinderilla loves, 
worships, and idolizes me, but unless I can gain the favor 
of her charming friend, Kitty Pembrooke, I am simply 
miserable. In short, my name is Dennis, and although 
the goose is cooked, yet the eating of it will be for some- 
body else, unless I make my point. But Pen, before 
you speak — I see you are about to — let me tell you how 
I feel. When I swung onto the stage at Hampton this 
morning I would gladly have sold out all my stock in 
Cinderilla Tobias at a devil of a sacrifice — say one cent 
on the dollar. Supposing now that originally I had ten 
dollars of paid-up stock, and I am pretty sure the ice 
creams, candies, nuts and fruit that I have lavished on 
Cinderilla would, beyond a question, justify me in say- 
ing that I had at least ten dollars of paid-up stock, all 
milk and no water. Now this morning, as I before ob- 
served, I would have been glad to have disposed of my 
stock at one cent on the dollar, which would make ten 
cents, two nickels, or a dime ; but since I have talked 
with you and taken into consideration the Pembrooke 
part of the business, and the mystery to which you hold 
the key, why my hopes spontaneously go up and with 
them my stock in Cinderilla Tobias. At this instant, 
Pen, I would not sell out for less than one hundred cents 
on the dollar. Now, my boy, what were you going to 
observe ?” 

2 * 


34 


PEN LEAVES HOME. 


“ I never heard/’ said Pen, “ of any one by the name 
of Kitty Pembrooke.” 

“Never, did you say?” said the Inimitable, with 
the most forlorn and deiected air that mortal man ever 
wore. 

“ Never, no, sir, never,” said Pen. 

“ Then,” observed Willets, “ down again goes my 
hopes and likewise down goes the stock. Ah ! fleeting 
hope, how at times you stimulate, but when the prop is 
removed, what an all-gone sensation creeps about my 
fluttering heart. 

“There was a time, my youthful companion, when 
none of this was my lot, but it was long ago, the memory 
of which is very touching indeed to the bundles of nerves 
in my make up.” 

“Mr. Willets,” said Pen, “I want you to promise me 
that you will not mention to any one that I told you I 
was in possession of facts which were communicated to 
me by father, that no one else knows of ; especially do I 
want you to be guarded with my aunt.” 

“ My dearest youth and companion, I give the prom- 
ise, and so much of your secret as you have confided 
to me is buried deep in this bosom ; so deep that there 
is no known process among men or nations that can 
ever extricate it.” 

‘‘Thank you, Mr. Willets.” 

“Don’t mention it, my youthful companion, I beg of 
you, don’t mention it.” 

“ My father did tell me,” said Pen, “ that there was a 
young lady in the Pembrooke family, who at this time 
must be about twenty years old, by the name of Katie.” 

“ Katie, Katie, did you say ?” exclaimed the Inimitable. 
“ Then up goes my hopes and up goes my stock in 
charming Cinderilla Tobias. Katie and Kitty are one 
and the same. Katie is a nick name of Catherine, and 
Kittie is Kate in a petrified form. My dear Pen, I know 
this. I was once a pet myself ; then it was charming 
Eddie, which is a petrified form of Edward but those rosy 
poetic days have long since past. My dear Pen, excuse 
me for doing most of the talking, but I must ask you a 
single question, which of course you are at liberty to 


PEN LEAVES HOME. 


85 


answer or rule out of order : Why do you not go to 
| your kith and kin, who would undoubtedly be more 
I appreciative and more considerate for your welfare, and 
when there you might be able, to put in a good word for 
your friend, till death, Edward Willets, Esq. Why you 
don't do this, Pen, I admit I am so deucedly stupid as 
not to understand.” 

“ You know,” said Pen, “it takes money to travel, 
and money I haven’t got.” 

“ Money, did you say ?” observed the Inimitable, as 
he drew from his breeches pocket a shrunken, shriveled 
looking purse, and extricated with thumb and finger a 
twenty-dollar bank note, “ there take that my dearest 
Pen. It is of no value to me — I have come near break- 
ing it a half a dozen times in the past fortnight, but I 
have saved it to pay my board. But why I should have 
done such an unnatural thing I don’t know. I never 
saved a cent before to pay board with ; and as to my 
breaking a bill, it is always disastrous in the extreme, 
especially to the bill ; for the moment it is broken the 
pieces disappear like licks of salt in a cattle yard.” 

“ But I cannot pay you back, Mr. Willets, for a long 
time.” 

“ My dear Pen, you can do it very easily by just say- 
ing a good word to Kittie Pembrookefor Edward Wil- 
lets, Esq. Let me see — that makes thirty dollars of stock, 
all told, in Cinderilla Tobias. Its worth a dollar-five, 
and no capitalist, corporation or money-monger can get 
it for a cent less.” 

Five miles of the journey had now been made and the 
driver drew up his horses to give them water, and while 
they were drinking the Inimitable and little Pen shook 
hands, and promised ever after to be bosom friends. 
Indeed, when the stage started on again, Pen felt that he 
was parting with a sincere friend. He felt proud of the 
attention and kindness that Willets had shown him, and 
he determined to do his utmost to reciprocate in the way 
Willets desired. 

The next five miles were far more tedious to the 
young traveler, and seemed so much longer, but at last 
they wore away, and the stage drew up at a little wooden 


36 


PEN LEAVES HOME. 


tavern, which seemed the principal building in the inland 
village consisting of not more than a dozen houses all 
told. The horses were speedily put up, and dinner was 
announced. Pen was given a place by a good natured, 
fat lady, who seemed to be the landlady, as she made it 
her special duty to seat all incoming guests and see that 
they were properly cared for. 

Just opposite Pen sat a lady and a little girl. The 
lady was, perhaps, forty years old, and very neatly dress- 
ed, yet she had such a good, kind, considerate appear- 
ance, that Pen felt perfectly at ease in her presence. 

The little girl at her side, who undoubtedly was her 
child, was a blonde and very handsome. She was, per- 
haps, ten years old, and Pen thought that she was the 
prettiest little girl he had ever seen. Her beauty was in 
no one feature of the face, nor her ladylike deportment 
in no one act or gesture ; nothing was over done, yet 
all was finished and complete. 

Dinner being over, Pen was highly pleased to learn 
that the lady and child would be fellow-travelers in the 
coach, and that soon after they were going on through a 
woody country. 

“ How far are you going, my little man ?” inquired 
the lady of Pen. 

“ I’m going to the Mills,” he replied. 

“ Do you live there?” 

“No, ma’am. I did live at Hampton, but my papa 
and mamyna both died, and now I am going out to 
work,” said Pen, and when he finished speaking, two great 
tears were trickling down his cheeks. 

The lady bent forward, and with her own handker- 
chief wiped the tears away, and, kissing him on the 
forehead, bade him cry no more, but tell her whom he 
was going to work for — what kind of work he was 
going to do. 

“ 1 am going,” said Pen, “ to work for a Mr. McGuffin 
on the farm.” 

“We live on the farm, don’t we, mamma?” said the 
little girl. 

“ Yes, my child,” said the lady, as she smoothed back 
the tresses of hair from the child’s handsome face. 


PEN LEAVES HOME. 


87 


Then, turning again to Pen, she asked, “ What is your 
name ?” 

“ Penfield Pembrooke,” he replied. “They call me 
Pen for short.” 

“ Pembrooke ?” repeated the lady. “ What was your 
father’s name ?” 

“ Leroy Pembrooke,” said Pen, who, though young 
as he was in years, was somewhat startled at the color 
as it came and went from the lady’s face. 

“Did you know him ?” inquired Pen. 

“ Don’t ask me, child,” she said, and turned away her 
face. 

Pen climbed up on the seat and tried to look out of 
the window, but his eyes would keep coming back to 
the lady’s face, and the more he looked the more he 
thought he could see traces of past affliction and grief, 
but they seemed to bear a date of long ago, and suc- 
ceeding years had smothered out in part the furrows 
that will come when affliction and grief are our com- 
panions. They cut deep notches on the brows of the 
children of men, and wear away the elasticity of the 
heart, and cause hope to wither and die. 

Ah, remorseless companions, indeed, are affliction 
and grief — “ They make young men old and wrinkled 
in a single day, and in a single night turn the jetty hair 
to hoary gray.” 

At last the lady turned to Pen and said ; “ Come to 
my side, child. I would not,” she observed with some 
emotion, “ have you think that I am cold and unfeeling. 
Indeed, my heart bleeds to think of you going out into 
the world to battle alone with the evils and temptations 
that surround you, without the protecting influence of a 
mother’s love. I wish you lived near me ; 1 would be a 
mother to you, but my home is many miles from here, 
if my husband, Mr. Baine, were here, he might take you 
with us. I will surely tell him of you, and may be he 
will stop at the Mills and hunt you up, sometime in the 
near future. 

“ Here is a Bible my daughter was taking to her 
brother ; I will ask her to give it to you.” She turned 
to the child and said : 


38 PEN LEAVES HOME. 

“ Lillie, my daughter, come here.” 

The little girl came and stood beside Pen while the 
mother said : “ Lillie, my child, this little boy has no home, 
no father, no mother, and is now on his way to live 
among strangers. Do you not want to give him this 
Bible ? I can get another for you to give to brother.” 

She took the book from her mother, and placed it in 
Pen’s hand. 

“ Read it and obey it,” she said, “ and you will be a 
good man like my papa.” 

“ Thank you,” said Pen, while great tears were cours- 
ing down his cheeks, almost blinding him. 

“ Wait,” said the mother, “I will take my pencil and 
write something in the book.” 

When she had finished she read it, as follows : 

“ Presented to Penfield Pembrooke by Lillie Baine.” 

The little girl then withdrew and again busied her- 
self looking out of the coach window. 

“ You asked me,” said Mrs. Baine, “ if I knew your 
father ?” 

“ Yes, lady,” said Pen eagerly. “ Did you know him ?” 

“ I did know your father years ago, and he did our 
family a great injury, made himself an outcast, and 
threw a shadow over the bright hopes of my twin sister. 
I do not refer to this to explain any of the circumstances 
to you, but only to teach you a lesson of forgiveness. I 
fully believe your father repented. I know my sister 
forgave him, and if she could, surely I can. I little 
thought the last time I saw him, that so many years 
would pass by without ever seeing or hearing of him, 
and you must not think, strange if I was a little startled 
to learn that you are his child. I claim to be a Christian 
woman, my child, and I am trying to do by all my fellow 
creatures as a Christian woman should. 

“ Although you are the child of a man whose conduct 
brought many wrinkles on my brow and many more, on 
the brow of my now angel sister, yet I think not of that, 
but think rather of how I can best impress you with the 
divine teachings of the Holy Bible, and how I can best 
throw a mantle and guard around you to protect you 
from temptation and sin.” 


PEN LEAVES HOME. 


39 


“Mrs. Baine,” said Pen, “ my mamma used to talk 
to me just as you are talking now, and I promised her, 
and now I will promise you, that I will do my best to 
shun all evil and I will also try to be as forgiving to- 
ward the sins and shortcomings of my associates, as you 
have this day been to the memory of my poor, dear 
papa.” 

“ Nobly said, my little man,” exclaimed Mrs. Baine. 

“What place is this, mamma ?” inquired Lillie. 

“ It must be the Mills,” she replied. 

And sure enough it was the Mills, and there was a 
burly-looking man taking down Pen’s box. 

“ Well, I will have to get out here,” said Pen, turning 
to Mrs. Baine and extending his hand. “ Good-by, Mrs. 
Baine.” 

“ Good-by, my child,” she responded, and bending 
down, she embraced him tenderly and bade him God 
speed. 

He then turned to Lillie, who took his offered hand 
and said farewell. 

The old stage was soon moving on and Pen was with 
his new master, Mr. McGuffin, who was a short, stout- 
built man. His face was covered over with a shaggy 
beard and he talked as gruffly as he looked. 

It was late at night when Mr. McGuffin’s home was 
reached. His wife was waiting for him and had the 
cloth spread and a lunch in readiness. 

Pen’s long ride had shaken him up considerably and 
sharpened his appetite, so he ate a hearty supper. When 
he had finished, Mr. McGuffin observed that if Pen would 
work as keen as his appetite seemed to indicate, he would 
do quite a man’s work. 

Pen made no reply, but waited until he was shown to 
his room, which was on the garret floor. 

A little sickly-looking bunk was in one corner, a 
three-legged stand near it and an old-fashioned chair, 
with its back broken off. These, and just three hooks 
on which to hang his clothing, constituted the furniture 
of his room. 

As soon as he was alone he drew the chair carefully 
to the stand and opened the Bible that Lillie Baine had 


40 


OLD HINCHEY INTRODUCED. 


given him, and commenced reading softly to himself, 
every now and then stopping to spell by syllables the 
long, hard words, and then going on again. 

The tallow candle burned low and dim until he could 
hardly see : then he would turn and snuff the wick and 
it would burn up brightly for a moment. The wind, 
hopever, from openings in the wall would make the 
light flicker so unsteadily that he could hardly see. 

Great tears would come to his eyes and course their 
way down his pale cheeks, but he would brush them 
hastily away. They were not caused so much from the 
wind as from his loneliness of heart ; but if you should 
have asked him why the tears came, he would have told 
you it was only the wind. 


CHAPTER IV. 


A WELL LAID SCHEME THWARTED. OLD HINCHEY 
INTRODUCED. 

LTHOUGH Pen had been duly articled to farmer 



McGuffin, yet no money had been paid to Aunt 


Zurilda, who by the way, was getting rather low 
in finances, caused mainly by her expecting and not yet 
receiving any funds from the Inimitable for his board 
and lodging. 

True, she had not asked him for funds, although she 
had been on the point of doing so a great many times ; 
but as often as she got ready to speak to him about it, 
just so often would he branch off into one of his poetic, 
soul touching speeches, and with such a suavity of 
manner that she could not think of breaking the spell 
of the poetic muse by referring to anything so mercenary 
as money. 

Thus day after day passed by, and finally a bright 
idea presented itself to her. She would write to Mr. 
McGuffin. That’s what she would do. 

Pen had been with the farmer about a month when 
she first thought of this, so suiting the action to the 


OLD HINCHEY INTRODUCED. 


41 


thought, the spinster seated herself at the writing desk 
and wrote as follows : 

“ Hampton, July 2^th, 18 — . 

“ Mr. C. McGuffin, 

My Dear Sir : — My nephew, Penfield Pembrooke, has 
now been with you about one month, and according to 
the terms of the article he has yet four months to 
remain. I write to ask if he pleases you, and, if he 
does, would you object to sending me the price of the 
article, which at Three Dollars per month would be Fif- 
teen Dollars for the whole five months. I assure you, 
Mr. McGuffin, I would not write you making such a 
request if I were not sorely pressed for funds. Hoping 
you will take no offense at what I ask, and that you can 
and will grant my request, I am, 

Most sincerely yours, 

Miss Zurilda Goodsil.” 

“ There,” said the spinster, when she had finished, “ I 
think that will bring it, unless the boy has been too 
smart and got above his business. Oh, that the boy had 
an appreciative poetic turn of mind ! ” 

When this letter reached the Mills it was no sooner 
put in the “ M.” box at the little dingy post-office than a 
gruff voice called out to the postmaster : 

“ Anything here for me ? ” 

The aged gentleman addressed looked hard at the 
speaker through his dusty glasses, but not being able to 
see who it was, bent his head forward, elevated his eyes, 
and looked over the rim of his spectacles. 

“Ah, and it’s Mister McGuffin that’s askin’? Sure, 
sir, an’ I wasn’t afther knowin’ yer voice though I’ve 
heerd it these many years.” 

“Yes, Tim, it’s me,” replied McGuffin, “and I’m 
deucedly near played out ; drove forty miles last night, 
and have got to go on over to the next town yet afore I 
can go home.” 

“ Forty modes was yes afther sayin’ ? Sure, Mr. 
McGuffin, ye’ll be the death of yerself yet. Now, 


42 


OLD IIINCHEY INTRODUCED. 


where in the woide world could yes have been drivin’ 
forty modes to, I want to know ?” inquired Tim. 

“ Oh, I was after another load of goods to supply you 
chaps that sells ’em,” said McGuffin ; “ and I will be 
glad,” he continued, “ when we get a railroad through 
these parts, and then J won’t have to kill myself workin’ 
so devilish hard.” 

“Now, why in the divil, Mr. McGuffin, didn't yes be 
afther tellin’ on me that yes goin’ after a load, and I 
would sure given yes an ordher,” said Tim. 

“ What kind of goods do you want ?” asked McGuffin, 
rather gruffly. 

“Well, yes know that I was afther wantin’ some 
pocket knives and some revolvers and such loike. When 
yes brought yer last load over, a month since,” said Tim, 
“and, bedad,” he continued, “ it’s now good two months 
since I sold the last knife in me sthore, an’ what the 
devil is a mon to do, sure, in me business with nothin’ to 
sell ?” 

“Never mind, Tim,” said McGuffin, with a careless 
indifference, “I’ll drive my wagon around to your back 
door, and maybe I’ve got what you want.” 

“Ah, Mr. McGuffin,” said Tim, “ye’s a man afther 
me own heart. But hould on, Mr. McGuffin, hould on 
a minute ; here’s the letther yes afther askin’ for.” 

Mr. McGuffin had started out to drive his wagon 
around, but now came back and received the letter from 
old Tim Mannahan’s hand, and then hurried out again 
to get his goods around at Tim’s back door and exhibit 
them. 

Mr. C. McGuffin was a very enterprising sort of a 
man, and very prosperous. 

Some twelve years before the time at which we write 
he had settled on a small tract of land near the Mills, and 
year by year had added acre after acre to his first posses- 
sions, until now he was reputed to be the wealthiest man 
in all that part of the country. He owned over a thou- 
sand acres of the best land, and it was stocked with large 
herds of cattle, but he still worked just as hard as ever. 
He always kept his own counsel, and was more ambi- 
tious than ever to own the land that adjoined his own. 


OLD HINCHEY INTRODUCED. 


43 


His remarkable success was quite phenomenal. He 
always had plenty of money, never make a debt, and 
always paid cash for what he bought. His own wife 
was afraid of him, knew nothing of his business, and 
was his slave, while his children trembled with fear at 
the sound of his gruff voice, and cowed like whipped 
curs at his glance. It was to such a home as this that 
Aunt Zurilda had consigned Pen in the discharge of her 
duty to the sacred memory of her sister. 

Mr. McGuffin was not long in getting his mud-be- 
splashed vehicle around to the back door of Tim Man- 
nahan’s store building, and soon the goods were being 
inspected. The result of the inspection was that the 
postmaster purchased quite a bill. 

Occasionally a difference of opinion would arise 
wherein Mr. McGuffin would insist on so many dollars 
and a half, and Tim would contend for so many dollars 
and a quarther. At last they were through. Mr. McGuf- 
fin went inside to settle and receive payment, also to 
purchase a post-office order for fifteen dollars to send to 
Miss Zurilda Goodsil. Not that anything she said in 
her letter moved him to respond, or that he cared a fig for 
her pressed circumstances, but here was an opportunity 
to display his promptness, and also show the spinster 
that C. McGuffin, Esq., always had money. Moreover/ 
the boy suited him; did his work well, and was faithful. 

To be sure the said C. McGuffin, Esq., had, during 
the month past, at divers times and without cause, cursed 
and swore at the boy until the very atmosphere was blue, 
but this was only done as a sort of preventive, to keep 
the lad from growing careless. Then again he reasoned 
with himself : “ If I send the pay for the whole five 
months I will have it done with, and the boy will have 
no alternative but to stay and work it out.” The money, 
therefore, was sent to Aunt Zurilda. 

Mr. McGuffin, having finished his business at the 
mills, pushed on to another inland village to close out 
his stock. It was considerably past noon when he 
reached his home. 

“ Hello ! ” he shouted, and his wife came to the door 
like magic. 


44 


OLD HINCHEY INTRODUCED. 


“ Where is Pen ? ” he inquired. “ Tell the little 
scapegrace of a hireling to hie his bones out here and 
put up this team, and do it devilish sudden, too.” 

“Why, didn’t Pen go with you last night ? ” timidly 
inquired Mrs. McGuffin. 

“No, he didn’t,” thundered C. McGuffin, Esq. 

“Well, he hasn’t been seen since you went away last 
night after dark.” 

“ What ? ” cried the now astonished McGuffin, “ isn’t 
he here ? ” 

“ No,” replied his wife, “ he has gone.” 

“Damme,” said the phenomenal C. McGuffin, Esq., 
“ so is my fifteen dollars gone. Well, where is Tobs ?” 

“ ’Ere Hi his, sir,” said a voice on the other side of 
the wagon. 

“ Put up this team, Tobs, and do it mighty spry. By 
the way, Tobs, have you any idea where that cussed boy 
has gone ?” 

“ Well, I ’ave my hown hidea,” responded the descen- 
dant of Great Britain. 

“ Well, what’s your idea ?” inquired McGuffin. 

“I think, sir,” said methodical Tobs, “you ’ad better 
change your boots, clothes and ’at for clane ones, and 
heat your dinner, and I will care for the ’orses ; after 
that, you kno, we can talk about that hunappreciative 
boy.” 

“ Very well, Tobs ; go ahead and put the horses out 
and rub them down well, for they have had a long drive, 
and I will change my clothes and eat my dinner.” 

“ I will look hafter the ’orses all right, you know,” 
said Tobs, who seemed determined to have the last 
word. 

Tobs, as he was called, was an Englishman, who had 
been in Mr. McGuffin’s service for a dozen years. In 
fact, he had been associated with his employer ever since 
he came over from England. When Mr. George Tobias, 
or Tobs, as he was now nick-named, came from England, 
he was a dashing young man with plenty of money. He 
met McGuffin, who seemed to be such a sociable sort of 
a chap, that soon Tobs and he were great friends. 

Tobs had a weakness for the social glass, and before 


OLD IIINCHEY INTRODUCED. 


45 


he had been in McGuffin’s company a fortnight they had 
both been beastly intoxicated a half-dozen times. One 
morning when Tobs awoke from a drunken stupor, and 
after much shaking and coaxing had roused McGuffin, 
and while the latter was shaking off the stupor, Tobs 
found to his unspeakable horror that he had been robbed 
of every shilling he had. As soon as McGuffin learned 
the unhappy condition of his friend, he instituted a strict 
search and found that he, too, had been robbed. They 
quit drinking after this, and destitute Tobs was given a 
home with McGuffin, and the latter gentleman soon be- 
gan to prosper. Perhaps it was because he gave up the 
use of spirituous liquors. 

Tobs gradually became, like everything else around 
McGuffin, an inferior. It seemed quite natural for the 
Englishman to prefix a “ Mister ” to McGuffin’s name, 
and it gradually grew to be equally natural for McGuffin 
to nick-name the English gentleman “ Tobs.” So for 
years it had been Mister McGuffin on the one hand and 
Tobs on the other. 

During these years Tobs had seen a great many 
things in his employer that wore a decidedly suspicious 
look, and after a while he said to himself, “ Who knows, 
by George, but what McGuffin was playing hit honto 
me that time Hi lost my money ? Maybe he wasn’t so 
’einously drunk as Hi thought, you know.” 

Years passed on, and still Tobs waited and patiently 
toiled, and his suspicions that McGuffin was the robber 
who despoiled him of his possessions became a fixed 
belief in his mind. 

He knew, yet could not prove, that his employer 
came in possession of many things in a very mysterious 
and, he believed, dishonest manner, and he determined to 
put C. McGuffin, Esq., in his power if possible. 

When Pen came to work on the farm, Tobs took a 
great liking to him, and before he had been in the house 
a week Tobs, every evening, would creep up to his room, 
and either converse softly with the boy, or listen while 
Pen read from his Bible. 

It was a pleasant sight to see Pen, a child of scarce a 
dozen years, and Tobs, a man of over forty, together, 


46 


OLD HINCHEY INTRODUCED. 


one reading and the other listening to the divine truths 
and teachings of the holy Bible. 

In no one else had Tobs ever felt like confiding, but 
he took such a genuine fancy to Pen that he told him his 
story, and his suspicions that McGuffin was the thief, and 
more, that he believed C. McGuffin, Esq., “ was and ’ad 
been following up ’is thieving hacts hever since ; that 
about once a month he would ’ave ’is best team of ’orses 
brought hout just hat nightfall, and off ’e would go han 
not come ’ome till late next day, hand the ’orses hair 
ne’er brushed, you know, when *e comes ’ome.” 

“ Why don’t you follow him?” said Pen, “ and find 
out for a certainty if he is stealing, and then you could 
have him punished.” 

“ Well, Hi will tell you,” said Tobs. “ Hi ’ave 
thought hov that, but hif Hi should follow ’im and find 
nothing out, why, what the devil would Hi do, you 
know, as Hi ’ave no other ’ome?” 

“If I could help you, Tobs,” said Pen, “I would 
gladly do it, but I don’t see any way that I can ; and 
now I will confide something to you, but you must prom- 
ise me that you will never tell.” 

“Hi never will, hif Hi should live to be an ’undred 
years hold,” said Tobs. 

“ I am a going to run away from this place,” said 
Pen, “ and go to some relatives I have. They don’t know 
me, but I know of them.” 

“Look here, Pen,” said Tobs, “you must wait 
awhile afore you go han see hif you can’t ’elp me. Hi 
sort of think you can, you know.” 

“ In what way, Tobs,” inquired Pen, “ can I help 
you ?” 

Just what Hi was going to tell you,” replied Tobs. 
“Now I know that this is han ’einous place, deucedly 
’einous ; but if you will consent to follow McGuffin the 
next time he takes a trip with his best ’orses, Hi will fix 
hit so you can keep hup with ’im, an’ we will find hout 
what the hold chap his hup to, an’ if ’e’s a thieving, you 
know, why Hi will say Hi knew it all along, han’ just 
come right down on ’im, han’ if he don’t pay me back 
my three thousand dollars an’ hinterest, why George 


OLD HINCHEY INTRODUCED. 


47 


Tobias, Esq., will everlastingly play the devil, you 
know, with C. McGuffin, Esq.” 

“ There is my hand, Tobs, and I promise to go. If 
he is up to any meanness, we will find it out and have 
him severely punished for it ; and, more, we will make 
him do as you said, — pay you back your money.” 

So it was agreed between Pen and Tobs that Mc- 
Guffin should be closely watched and followed. 

Tobs soon after this agreement constructed a box, 
which he kept in the wagon shed. It was so constructed 
that he could fasten it on the under side of the wagon, 
and was just large enough for Pen to crawl into. The 
back part was left entirely open, so that he could easily 
slip out whenever the wagon stopped, if he wished to. 

After Pen had been at the farmer’s for about a 
month, Tobs, at the supper table one evening, trampled 
Pen’s toes unmercifully, it being the signal that the time 
had come. 

Just as the shade of night was closing in, Tobs 
brought out his master’s special team and hitched them 
to his best wagon. 

Pen was stowed away in the small box, and Tobs 
had only time to say to him, “Now, ’old tight and not 
fall hout.” 

When C. McGuffin, Esq., came upon the scene, he 
sprang lightly into the seat and drew up the lines, 
ordering Tobs to open the gate and “be thunder’n’ swift 
about it.” 

The gate swung open and the phenomenal McGuffin, 
wholly unconscious of the precious load he was draw- 
ing, drove out and away into the darkness. 

On, on the wagon went ; up steep hills, down 
descents, over bridges and through deep woods at a 
lively pace. 

Pen was so shaken up that every bone in his body 
seemed ready to fall to pieces. 

After about three hours of rapid travel the team was 
slackened down to a walk. The main road was then 
left, and the driver headed the somewhat jaded horses 
down an old by-road, and finally stopped. 


48 


OLD IIINCHEY INTRODUCED. 


A voice, in a low, deep tone, said : “ Hello, Me., on 
time as usual.*’ 

“ It seems I am here,” was McGuffin's gruff reply, as 
he climbed down from the wagon. 

“Now,” continued he, in the same compressed gruff 
voice, “ you two chaps put your deadeners on the 
wheels.” 

Forthwith each wheel was provided with a lint fabric 
that would wholly deaden the noise, even in the roughest 
roads. 

As soon as this was done McGuffin spoke again. 

“ Well, men, what have you got ? ” 

“ Coma in to the cave, my brother, and see,” said one 
of the men, and the same voice addressed his companion, 
saying: “Dick, you’d better keep a watch on the team 
and a look out, while I go with my good brother into 
the cave.” 

They were not gone long. As they returned Pen 
heard McGuffin say, “ Well, you have the things boxed 
and ready, and I will drive down through the village and 
see what I can see.” 

Accordingly the horses were headed about, and down 
into the village they drove, as silently as a canoe on the 
waters. 

Pen was on the look-out, and at once recognized the 
village as Hampton. 

The wagon stopped in front of Mr. Ford’s store, and 
in a moment’s time C. McGuffin, Esq., had two good 
sized grind-stones laid carefully in his wagon and was 
driving on. 

When he got to the lower part of the village he 
turned around and started back, but before he went far 
he stopped again, and, getting out, proceeded to open 
the bars of some poor family’s cow-yard. The yard was 
small, and Pen could see a large fat cow lying down, 
ruminating and breathing loudly after the fashion of 
cattle kind. 

The phenomenal McGuffin threw a lick of salt to 
her, which wholly put the brute off her guard ; then 
slipping a noose around her neck, he soon had the ani- 
mal hitched behind the wagon. 


LIN BRINKERHOFF. 


49 


From here he drove slowly back to where he left his 
two pals, who were none other than old Hinchey, the 
king thief of the Ohio River, and his right-hand pal, Dick 
Dare, whose headquarters were promiscuously distribu- 
ted in all the larger cities along the Ohio River. 

McGuffin seemed anxious to hurry on home. Very 
little time was, therefore, spent either in loading the 
boxes of goods or settling for them. 

There seemed to be a little misunderstanding as to 
when they would meet again, but the time was finally 
agreed upon, and the Phenomenal turned his horses 
homeward. 

Pen could not think of riding all the way back, and 
as this was Hampton, he would go and see Willets, who 
was his sincere friend, and have C. McGuffin, Esq., ar- 
rested before he got home. 

Accordingly, after old Hinchey and Dare were left a 
short distance behind, Pen swung down from his box, 
and, dropping flat on the ground, waited for the wagon 
to drive a little way before he should get up. 

He finally straightened himself up and had advanced 
but a few steps when a hand was laid heavily on his 
shoulder, and a deep, guttural voice whispered in his 
ear : 

“ I guess not, my dear young man; I guess you’d 
better stay with old Hinchey.” 


CHAPTER V. 

LIN BRINKERHOFF BECOMES A STUDENT OF TELEGRAPHY. 

W E will leave Pen for a time with old Hinchey, 
the notorious vagabond and thief, and return 
to scenes that are being enacted at Hampton. 
Just at the lower edge of the village stands a little 
dingy, red-painted building, with a roof much too large 
to be in keeping with its dimensions otherwise, 

d 


50 


LIN BRINKERHOFF. 


ft is the depot-building for both lines of railways. 
Rather an unpretentious affair, yet wholly in keeping 
with the village. 

The train from St. Louis, going east, passed through 
Hampton at twelve o’clock in the day time, and the train 
from the east, going west, passed through at twelve 
o’clock at night ; both the trains were usually on time, 
while the trains to and from Chicago, on the other road, 
were usually behind time. 

From seven o’clock in the evening to seven o’clock 
in the morning, Edward Willets, the Inimitable, held 
forth at this place as night operator, also attending to 
the checking and transferring of all baggage. But there 
was very little of this sort of work to do, while his tele- 
graphic labors consisted of taking a few train orders and 
reporting the arrival and departure of the few trains 
that ran. 

The balance of his time he employed either sleeping 
or writing poetic effusions for the spinster’s perusal and 
edification. 

His one great fault was to be always out of money 
and always in debt. He had other faults, but they were 
trivial compared with this. 

He could fall desperately in love at the least provo- 
cation, and just as easily fall out again, and he seemed 
none the worse for the wear. 

He could talk of poetry and even write some tame 
effusions, if it was to his interest to do so. He could as 
easily and with fully as much fluency, talk of religion 
and politics; but in reality he knew very little poetry, 
very little religion, and very little politics, but had a 
smattering of all, a little of everything, yet was not ab- 
solutely positive about anything. He was one of those 
happy persons who are very susceptible to impressions 
and are contented with those impressions, never troub- 
ling himself about the why and wherefore. In short, he 
was one of those malleable and adaptable individuals 
who can bend themselves and be bent to the surround- 
ings of any station in life, without asking a single ques- 
tion. 

Within three months after his arrival he knew every 


LIN BRINKERHOFF. 


51 


man, woman and child in the village of Hampton, and 
had the reputation of being a remarkably smart man. 
During these three months of his sojourn he had kept his 
word with Aunt Zurilda, and never referred to the sub- 
ject of board or board-bill, directly or indirectly. 

Because of this, and because he was paying consider- 
able attention to giggling girls, which the spinster said 
was unbecoming to a man of his poetic taste, he had 
fallen somewhat in her estimation. Notwithstanding 
even this, it is highly presumable that the spinster 
actually entertained thoughts of binding her own poetic 
taste with the Inimitable’s in matrimonial attachment, 
should he ever offer himself a living sacrifice at her 
feet. 

But as yet he had made no declaration of love to her, 
although she could remember an innumerable number of 
times when he came so near, oh ! so near. 

Thus she existed from day to day in poetic hope and 
trust, and the Inimitable Edward existed from day to day 
in poetic doubt and debt, and each sinking and sinking 
deeper and deeper with the rising and setting of the 
morning and evening sun. One evening Lin Brinker- 
hoff came into the depot alone, and the Inimitable in- 
vited him to step into the operator’s room, which invita- 
tion he readily accepted, for he had a business proposi- 
tion to make to Mr. Willets as soon as an opportunity 
presented itself. 

“ Let me see,” said Willets, “your name is Brinker- 
hoff, — Lin Brinkerhoff, I believe.” 

“Yes, sir, it is,” said Lin, in his usual bold voice. 

“Now,” continued the Inimitable, “I met a young 
lady at the ball last week, a deuced pretty girl, too, — in 
fact, perfectly charming, — by the name of Miss Edith 
Brinkerhoff, but I don’t suppose she is any relation of 
yours ?” 

“Well, but she is though,” said Lin. “Shes my 
sister.” 

“ What do you tell me ? She your sister, and I have 
been making observations about her in your very pres- 
ence ? What was it my young friend, what was it, sir, 
that I said ?” 


52 


LIN BRINKERHOFF. 


“You didn’t say anything bad,” said Lin, “you just 
said she was deucedly pretty.” 

“ My dear boy,” said Willets, in his most confidential 
tone, “never, nevei must you mention that remark of 
mine to your charming sister. You should be proud, 
sir, proud to have such a lady for your sister. To be , 
sure,” he continued, assuming a careless, off-hand style, 

“ she is yet young, but she will be like the unfolding 
rose bud ; as she develops she will grow more and more 
charming and lovely, and as the rose sheds its fragrance 
on the atmosphere around, so, also, will she scatter un- 
told wealth to the winds and impoverish the purse of her 
husb — .” 

At this point in his speech the Inimitable came 
straight to his feet and looked at himself in the mirror, 
which hung on the opposite wall, in unfeigned astonish- 
ment : then raising his hand to his face, he pinched him- 
self to make sure he wasn’t asleep. Then turning slowly 
to Lin he said in a greatly subdued voice : “ What did I 
say last about your sister, your beautiful, charming 
sister ?” 

“ Why, I wasn’t a listening,” said Lin looking up, “ to 
what you were a saying. I was paying attention to this 
telegraph business.” 

“ My tender youth,” said Willets, “ look up here, look 
up in my face ; now, sir, are you telling me the truth, 
the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you 
John Rodgers, when you say that you were listening to 
the instrument instead of listening to me ?” 

“That’s what I said, and it’s the truth,” contended 
Lin. 

At this the Inimitable dropped, rather tb wn 

in his chair, elevated one foot to the top of t nd, 

throwing the other across it, commenced s :tly 

to himself : 

“ A miss is as good as a mile ; a miss is is a 


mile.” 


Then, suddenly turning to Lin, he sa 
young man, you are a charming companio 
anything in the wide world that I can do f 
out.” 


ear 
e is 
eak 





LIN BRINK ERHOFF. 


53 


Here Lin attempted to state what was uppermost in 
his mind, but was promptly checked by the Inimitable, 
who exclaimed : 

“ Hold on, hold on, my dear young friend, hold on 
until I shall have finished the sentence. As I was say- 
ing, if there is anything in the wide, wide world that I 
can do for you, speak out, and if it is within my humble 
power to grant it, I am yours to command. Remember, 
sir, I am yours to command. And now, my charming 
boy, as you sit here before me, how vividly my own past 
comes back, and again I live in the happy rosy, rosy 
existence of my youth, when I was a household pet ; but 
I have traveled since then, and the entire journey has 
been up a steep and slippery grade. My dear boy, those 
days w’ere years and years ago.” 

“ I wanted to ask you, Mr. Willets,” said Lin, “if you 
could ” 

“ Now, my youthful companion,” said the Inimitable, 
abruptly, “ I discover that you are actually about to ask 
a favor of me — a favor at my hands. Be guarded, be 
careful, my boy, what you ask. Don’t ask me for money, 
for I have none ; don’t ask me to give you a character, 
for I have no character myself — that is, I mean I have 
none to give away. You understand me, no character to 
spare. No, that is hardly what I mean, but the expres- 
sion I feign would use has slipped my memory. But, to 
continue. Neither must you ask me for a position on 
either line of my railways, for while it is true that I am a 
sort of an official, yet the hiring of the help part of the 
business I leave entirely to the other officials ; and, lastly, 
don’t ask for a pass. I am free to admit that my name, 
Edward Willets, on a blank piece of paper would carry 
you from one end of either road to the other, yet, sup- 
posing you were traveling recklessly about on the cars, 
and there should be a collision, and your blood should 
be spilled, where would the blame be ? My youthful 
friend, your blood would be on me^and my children. 
Yes, more, it would be an unerasable stain on all who 
bore the name of Willets, even down to the third and 
fourth generations. 

“ You see, my young companion, how easily power 


54 


LIN BRINKERHOFF. 


can be abused. Now I have just dropped these few re- 
marks for caution’s sake, and I do sincerely trust that 
you will be guarded in your request, and draw it mild. 
It will then be in better keeping with the poetic harmony 
of the eternal fitness of things.” 

“All I wanted to say was this,” said Lin, in a tone of 
desperation, “I want to learn telegraphy, and thought, 
maybe, you would teach me at nights.” 

“ My dear Lin, is that all the request you have to 
make ?” 

“Yes, sir,” said Lin. 

“My youthful companion,” said the Inimitable, “I 
well know you wish to learn your fate, as it were, at once, 
so I will give you my decision without further remarks. 
Your request, sir, is granted, and there is my hand.” 

“ Thank you, sir,” said Lin, with some emotion. 

“Now, my dear boy,” continued Willets, “there are 
a few conditions I wish to talk over. In the first place, 
suppose I should be very tired and weary and should lie 
down and sleep part of the night, and the next day or 
some later date, some one would ask you if Mr. Willets 
ever slept on duty, what would you tell them ?” said the 
Inimitable, as he shut one eye and looked straight at Lin 
with the other. 

“ I would tell them,” said Lin, “ it was none of their 
business.” 

“That would not do,” said Willets, “for possibly it 
might be some of their business. It might be an official 
— one of my brother officials, you understand — that 
asked you.” 

“ Well, then, I would tell them,” said Lin, “that you 
never slept a wink from the time you came here till you 
went away.” 

“ Hold on, my charming boy ; that would be a little 
strong,” said Willets. “ Now, supposing,” he continued, 
“ I should put my hankerchief over my face when I slept, 
then you could say you never saw my eyes shut in sleep 
in your life.” 

“All right,” said Lin, “ I promise.” 

“Well, then supposing,” said the Inimitable, “ that 
this fall and winter I should wish to take in the dances 


LIN BRINKERHOFF. 


55 


up at the little town hall, do you think you could come 
after me- pretty swiftly if you should hear the station 
call ?” 

“ Yes, sir,” said Lin with emphasis, “and there is not 
a boy in Hampton that can run faster than I can.” 

“All right, my charming boy,” said Willets, “you 
are a lad after my own heart. Now tell me, my dear 
Lin, why you want to learn telegraphy?” 

“Well,” said the boy, “I am bound to go to College, 
and I thought if I learned to be an operator I could earn 
money, and use it in going to school.” 

“ My dear boy,” said the Inimitable, “your ambition 
is a truly laudable one, but you should have a pure 
poetic love for the art. Oh my youthful friend, there 
is a musical ring in the sounding instrument that is 
simply charming ! To think that I, Edward Willets, 
with this intellect grasp/’ tapping his head with a pen- 
stock, “and with this hand, record the electric sparks of 
intelligence .from the far East, the far West, the far 
South and the far North, is something truly wonderful. 
Or, supposing I write up a stirring article on some vital 
issue of the day, blood-curdling and full of thunder. 
Then P sit down here at my table, and by a given pro- 
cess I transmit it to the lifeless wire. Almost instantly 
it is grasped by the press as rubies and precious stones. 
To-morrow’s paper publishes the article underneath 
double-leaded head-lines, and, before the blazing sun 
has set, it is read by countless thousands. Oh, what an 
example of the eternal fitness of things ! ” 

“Do you write for the press, Mr. Willets?” asked 
Lin. 

“ Now, look here, my young friend, don’t ask me 
that question,” said Willets, “ I do not wish to pre- 
varicate to you, a young friend whom I have of my own 
free will and accord taken, as it were, into my bosom 
as a companion. Don’t ask me if I ever did anything 
very grand or sublime. Don’t ask, and then, I will be 
saved from the odious and heart-breaking task of pre- 
varicating.” 

“ Now, one thing further, Lin,” said Willets, T before 
you go. I see you are getting ready to take your leave. 


56 


LIN BRINKERHOFF. 


If any one should ever ask you if Mr. Willets wasn’t 
quite a poetic genius, or if Mr. Willets wasn’t quite a 
Bible student, or if Mr. Willets wasn’t quite a political 
sort of a man, I think you had better say that you think 
he is.” As Willets said this, he inserted both thumbs in 
the arm-holes, of his vest, and screwed his mouth up 
like the letter O, and looked hard at Lin, with the eye 
that was not shut. 

“ All right, sir,” said Lin, “ I’ll fill ’em up, if they ask 
me about you. Good night, Mr. Willets, I will be on 
hand to-morrow night at seven o’clock, sharp.” 

“ Good night, my charming boy, good night,” said 
Willets. 

The boy hurried away and down along the unlighted 
streets, until he came to a dark, deserted alley, into 
which he quickly turned and hurried on into the dark- 
ness and gloom. The alley lead down to the back of 
some old buildings that were wholly deserted, save by 
bats and vermin. The sides were swayed out and in 
many places the roof had wholly fallen in it. It was the 
Toms-All-Alone of Hampton, and toward this decaying 
mass Lin Brinkerhoff bent his steps. 

Presently a muffled knock was heard, and the indis- 
tinct hum of voices, which lasted about half an hour, 
after which Lin emerged from among the fallen rafters, 
props, and loose boards, and came suddenly out of the 
alley into the street again, and hurried homeward, 
wholly unconscious that he was shadowed by a dark, 
muffled figure from the time he left the depot until the 
door was closed on him at home. 

Mrs. Brinkerhoff was waiting for her son’s return- 
with considerable impatience, for she disliked very much 
to have him out at night, especially as there had been no 
small amount of petty thieving going on in Hampton 
for two years past. 

A Mr. Fords, the principal merchant of the place, had 
been the main loser. He carried a general stock of 
goods, such as groceries, clothing, dry-goods, hardware, 
etc., and had accumulated a fortune, after many years of 
patient toil. His losses consisted mostly of small arti- 
cles, such as cutlery, revolvers, canned fruit, hammers, 


LIN BRINKERHOFF. 


57 


hatchets, wrenches, suits of boys’ clothing, fine dry- 
goods, etc. Also a number of cattle had disappeared 
from the village, nor could the slightest clue be found 
that would lead to the discovery of the thieves. 

Soon after Lin returned home he had sought his bed. 
First, however, he told his mother of his success with 
Mr. Willets. Long after Lin was fast asleep, Mrs. 
Brinkerhoff sat in her low chair by the sewing stand 
and worked away busily with nimble fingers. 

She was a kind-hearted woman, always trying to do 
a charitable act to some worthy child of poverty. It 
was this spirit that prompted her to assume the care of 
little Bertha Pembrooke, Pen’s sister, when she was left 
an orphan. In former times she had been a proud, spir- 
ited woman, and had seen better days, but a cloud set- 
tled over her life when her husband was numbered with 
the slain on the field of battle, and after that her own 
and her daughter Edith’s hands were their only means 
of support. Incessant work, early and late, with the 
needle, had furnished them with the necessaries of life. 
Then a pension came, the price of her husband’s bravery 
and blood, and with its help they got on better. Edith 
was now approaching early womanhood, and was a 
faithful help to the mother. 

Lin was several years his sister’s junior, but in him 
the fond mother saw the staff and support of her declin- 
ing years, and in the silent hour of thought she saw the 
greatness he would achieve and the honored place he 
would occupy among the children of men. So like his 
father, she would say, so ambitious after knowledge and 
so clever in business matters. 

And as she stitched away, her thoughts would some- 
times turn thoughtfully over the pages of the past, and 
again she would live over her girlhood days in her old 
Kentucky home where she had grown to womanhood and 
had been wooed and won by one of Kentucky’s noblest 
sons. For years their union had been happiness. Then 
came a reverse in their financial affairs. The inherited 
wealth that had been left them was swept away at a 
single stroke, like dry leaves are blown about in the 
Winter’s gale. 

3 * 


58 


m TROUBLE. 


After that they came to Hampton, and here their 
children had been born, and all things had gone well 
with them until the cruel, cruel war called her life’s com- 
panion from her side, and left his mangled body in a 
distant clime, interred with many others in one common 
grave, and marked, “ Unknown.” 

Such is life, such our earthly existence. The morn- 
ing of life is bright and cheery, and presents many pros- 
pects that are truly alluring. The untried road looks 
smooth and safe while the burden of life seems light, 
and hope, that dearest of boons to mortals given, is ever 
ready to stimulate the soul in present difficulties, and 
paint bright pictures for the future. 

“ Tis well we who are born heir to sin know not what 
the future holds in store for us. Indeed, the happiness 
of the passing moment would be poisoned, and hope 
would no longer buoy us up. So life passes away ; at 
best it is but the brightness of a morning, the rich warmth 
of high twelve, and the darkness of a night.” 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE INIMITABLE IN TROUBLE. 

T RUE to his promise, Lin Brinkerhoff reported for 
duty the following evening, after the events re- 
corded in the preceding chapter, at sharp seven 
o’clock. The Inimitable was there, but as there was 
nothing to do until midnight, unless it might be some 
“commercial” business, he was walking on the plat- 
form in front, with down-cast head and arms crossed be- . 
hind him, the very image of despair, much like a grow- 
ing prosperous tree, in the hot sun, that has suddenly 
received the poisonous sting of a locust, or has had its 
sap root cut by a devouring gopher. The leaves wither 
and droop and its whole appearance is that of a pre- 
mature decay. 

Lin was at a loss to account for this great change in 


m TROUBLE. 


59 


Mr. Willets, whom he had imagined to be the happiest, 
most care-free mortal living, and while he was wonder- 
ing what possibly could have happened, the Inimitable 
put his head in at the door, lifted one foot to the sill and 
left the other on the platform below, while with both 
hands he grasped the door casing, against which he also 
rested his flushed yet dejected looking face. 

He said, in a dolefully subdued and weak voice : 
“ My aspiring young friend, have you ever read the story 
of the teacher and the sick scholar ?” 

“ I believe I have,” replied Lin. 

“Well this is a similar case, only it’s the teacher that’s 
sick. You, my dear companion and student, are the 
scholar, and you are strong and well, but I, your teacher, 
am fading and drooping, cut down, as it were, in my 
prime, and am like unto the crushed and withering 
marigold. 

“ Ah! long years ago I was young and loving, and 
loved, but it was so long, long ago that its memory to 
me to-night is like a half-forgotten dream.” 

Here the Inimitable’s head drooped down on his 
hands, and Lin was so frightened he hardly knew what 
to do. 

By considerable coaxing, he finally persuaded the 
seemingly exhausted man to lean on him, and be con- 
ducted into the operator’s room, and be seated in a large 
arm-chair. As he sank down in it he said, in a half- 
audible whisper, “ The old arm-chair — the old arm-chair ; 
how I love it, how I love it.” 

“Now, Mr. Willets,” said the excited Lin, “I will 
run for the physician at once.” 

“ No, no,” he responded, “you mustn’t do that.” 

“Yes, but I must,” remonstrated Lin. 

“Well, I say,” said the Inimitable, rousing up and 
speaking with his old time vigor, “ you must not. Has 
it so soon come to this,” he continued, “ the pupil dis- 
obeying the stern command of his teacher ?” 

Lin was dumbfounded at his sudden recovery, and 
could make no reply. Mr. WUlets continued : 

“My sickness, aspiring youth, is not of a kind that 
physic will cure. Nothing but pills of gold will allay 


60 


m TROUBLE. 


my suffering. It is a deep-seated disease, and has got 
fully three months the start of me. 

“In my hand,” said he, as he drew a letter from his 
pocket, “ is a prescription, but where is the pharmacist 
that will fill it ? The prescriber hereof took me to be 
an able druggist. I am, my dear young friend, but my 
stock is low — in fact, wholly exhausted. All our talk, 
my boy, must be grave-yard talk.” 

“ I will never repeat a word you say to me,” said 
Lin. 

“ Well, then,” said the Inimitable, as he slowly un- 
folded the letter, “ I will read the dose that is herein pre- 
scribed for me.” 


“At Home, Oct. ist, 1 8 — . 

“Edward Willets, Esq.: 

“I am very much afraid you have been de- 
ceiving me shamefully. I took you into my house, 
supposing you to be a gentleman, but instead I now 
believe I have been harboring a shiftless, good-for- 
nothing individual. 

“ You would not have forfeited the title of gentleman 
because of your poverty, for it’s no disgrace to be poor, 
only inconvenient ; but from the time you first stepped 
your foot into my house you have showered poetic effu- 
sions around me that have almost amounted to a decla- 
ration of affection. Imagine, then, my feelings this 
evening, when putting your room in order, to find a 
poem of just even one hundred verses, which, by its 
date, I saw you had written only yesterday. The follow- 
ing is but a sample of the whole : 

‘ Oh, how I long to leave this lonely villa, 

And live with you, my charming Cinderilla. 

“ Now, I don’t know who Cinderilla is, and I don’t 
care who she is, but if I was advising her to be happy, I 
would say to her : ‘ Have nothing to do with Edward 
Willets, Esq.’ Sir, you have been boarding at my house 
fourteen weeks, which, at four dollars per week, makes 


IK TROUBLE. 


61 


Fifty- Six Dollars, that you owe me. Pay at once, sir, and 
save costs and trouble . 

“ Respectfully, 

“ Miss Zurilda Goodsil. 

“ P. S. — Unless this board-bill is paid by twelve 
o’clock to-morrow, I will put your account into a law- 
yer’s hands and order your wages garnished. 

Z. G.” 

“There !” said Willets, when he had finished, “you 
have heard the ingredients of the prescription ; now, 
what the devil am I to do ? If she garnishees my wages 
my name is ‘Dennis’ on the whole line ; no more jobs 
on either road for me. I know what I am talking 
about, for I have had experience of this kind before.” 

“ Haven’t you got any money ?” inquired Lin. 

“ That, my youthful companion, is just the stick. I 
fancy that I can talk down all her other objections. In 
fact, I am quite sure I have some ability in that direction, 
but money, in this case, must come, and it is the very 
one article that I haven’t got. That is, I haven’t enough 
to liquidate the entire debt.” 

“ Mr. Willets,” said Lin, in a deep whisper, as he got 
up and fastened the door and looked cautiously out of 
each window, “ I have a little money, which I will loan 
you, but you must promise me that you will die before 
revealing to any living being the fact that I have money. 
My own mother, Mr. Willets, does not know of it. If 
you go away from here I will never learn telegraphy, 
and so I confide so much of my secret to you and will 
loan you the amount you lack to make up the fifty- 
six dollars.” 

As soon as Lin concluded, the Inimitable came quick- 
ly to his feet, and, hastily throwing off his coat, proceeded 
to unbutton his shirt sleeves, which he rolled up to his 
elbow. 

“ Lin, my charming, appreciative and inspiring youth, 
loan me your pocket-knife until I tap an artery.” 

“ Why, what are you going to do that for?” asked 
Lin, with a frightened look. 

“ I wish, sir, to tap an artery, and with the blood that 


62 


IN TROUBLE. 


flows therefrom record my sacred promise to keep in- 
violable so much of your secret as you have this night 
communicated to me." 

“ No, no, Mr. Willets,” said Lin, “if you give me 
your word it is all I ask for. Count your money and 
tell me how much you have, and then I will make up the 
balance.” 

“ My dear boy, I am a better business man than you 
think. I always know to the cent how much money I 
have. I told you awhile ago that I was not the happy 
possessor of sufficient funds to liquidate the entire in- 
debtedness, which is fifty-six dollars. Now you give me 
fifty -five dollars and ninety cents, and I will toss my dime 
into the jack pot, and there we are.” 

“ You haven’t much on hand, have you ? ” said Lin as 
he drew forth an old-fashioned purse and counted out 
the money. 

“ Look here, my appreciated benefactor,” said Willets, 
as he rolled the bank bills up and stowed them away in 
his pocket, “ that last remark of yours was surely an 
unthinking one. Ten cents, my boy, is ten cents the 
world over. It is equal to two nickels, or a tenth part of 
a dollar, and represents a given value ; a value, my 
charming boy, that is not to be sneezed at. In aten-cent 
piece you see two small beers, or a foaming double 
header, and so long as you have ten cents in your pocket 
you are never broke. Now, my dear Lin, in the future 
be careful, be guarded, and never again make a depreci- 
ating remark about the widow’s mite.” 

“ Where I got this money, Mr. Willets,” said Lin, “of 
course is my own affair.” 

“ My dear boy,” said the Inimitable, now wholly re- 
covering his usual glowing state of tranquillity, “don’t 
mention it, as I have already given my sacred and never- 
to-be-broken promise of eternal secrecy ; but your kind- 
ness to me this evening, my charming youth, can never, 
no, never, be forgotten while this heart within me con- 
tinues to thump and throb. You well know, my dear 
boy, that when you first came this evening I was feeling 
downhearted, dejected and miserable, but how miser- 
able 


IN TROUBLE. 


63 


‘No human tongue can tell,’ 

My frail bark was headed toward a suicide’s grave. In 
short, the prescription I had received in this letter was 
the final crusher that was fast playing the very mischief 
with all my earthly hopes ; but 

4 A friend in need is a friend indeed.’ 

You it was, my appreciative and aspiring youth, who 
hastened 

‘To the rescue ! to the rescue !’ 

and now I am a changed being. My bark, as it were, 
seems suddenly to have been launched on the smooth 
waters of a beautiful river that winds its course like a 
silver thread through a groundwork of emerald green, 
shaded here and sheltered there by the leafy boughs of 
old giant oaks and other stately forest trees, while the 
shores are thickly lined with lilies, honeysuckles and 
roses, and thousands of unnamed wild flowers, whose 
fragrant odors perfume each passing breeze and zephyr, 
and ‘ my happy past no longer seems like unforgotten 
dreams ’ — excuse the rhyme — but indeed a living reality. 
Then I was the household pet, the household treasure of 
a loving family, and rested on ‘ flowery beds of ease ’ 
and basked like an innocent lamb in the love and sun- 
shine of the poetic muse. But, alas, the change since 
then ! Oh, those luxuries of my happy youtii ! But 
my charming Lin,” he continued, “we must waste no 
more time loitering, as it were, with the phantoms of 
memory. I will now proceed to give you your first les- 
son in the sublime Art of Telegraphy.” 

Accordingly Lin was given his first lesson, and proved 
to be a faithful and untiring student. 

The hour of seven o’clock the following morning at 
last came around and the Inimitable bent his steps to- 
ward the spinster’s. The little parlor door was open, as 
usual at that time in the morning, and Aunt Zurilda, also 
as usual, was engaged in her morning occupation of 
sweeping and dusting, and as Willets entered she first 
looked up and then straightened her long, lean, lank 


64 


m TROUBLE. 


figure. Her face wore a half look of surprise at seeing 
him, mingled with a “ I-am-truly-glad-he-came-back ” 
sort of expression, and withal such a regretful, faded 
look, like her wrapper, which originally in the long ago 
had been full of bright colors, but little by little the 
colors had faded and at last been washed entirely out. 

“ Mr. Willets !” she exclaimed, as she removed from 
her head the towel she was using in the capacity of a 
dust cap, “ I wrote you a letter last ” 

“Miss Goodsil,” interrupted the Inimitable, “I insist 
upon having the first speech, but at the outset I promise 
you that it will be wholly destitute of poetry, for all the 
poetry of my being has been knocked and shot out of 
me in an uncaring manner, much like the front end 
wad of a pop gun is shot uncaringly out into the un- 
limited space of a cold, cold world. First, I will state 
that the poetry you found was written for a friend of 
mine, who had no ability to write poetic effusions. 1 did 
write the poem, and have already received my pay for 
the same. What you found in my room was merely a 
copy. Now, as to the financial part of your letter, I have 
only this to say : that I have been on the point, at least 
a dozen different times in the last month, of writing you 
a letter and inclosing a hundred or a two hundred dollar 
check, but you have saved me that trouble by making 
out my bill, which you claim is only fifty-six dollars. 
I must admit that I consider your bill very reason- 
able, Miss Goodsil ; very reasonable, indeed ; and now,” 
said he, as he drew a package from his pocket, “ if you 
will be kind enough to carefully count the contents of 
this package, you will find that your not over-courteous 
request for filthy lucre has been complied with to the 
cent. 

“ I am, Miss Goodsil, no pauper — far from it. The 
money I have out at interest, I dare say, would board 
me.” 

By the time he had concluded MissZurilda was shed- 
ding bitter tears of repentance, but when he had ceased 
she managed to control her emotions enough to say : 

“ Oh, Mr. Willets, how can I ever make amends for 
the great injury I have done you ?” 


m TROUBLE. 


65 


“ Miss Goodsil, don't mention it. My bark is 
launched and its sails are spread on an unknown, un- 
tried sea. I can no longer tarry in this mundane sphere 
of earthly woe. The crusher, Miss Goodsil, the crusher 
that I have received at your hands has knocked all the 
poetic breezes from out my inflated soul, and left me a 
withered heap. It is by far the severest shock of all my 
experience since I was a happy laughing boy and basked 
in the lap of luxury.” 

Here the Inimitable broke down entirely, and wept 
aloud. 

The spinster came to his relief with many apologies, 
and declared his explanations were very satisfactory in- 
deed, and that she would never forgive herself if he went 
away ; and wouldn’t he stay and have everything go on 
just as it had before? and that now he must come out 
and have a good hot breakfast and a cup of coffee, his 
favorite beverage, which entreaty the Inimitable was 
unable to withstand, and notwithstanding his apparent 
deep-seated emotions, he ate a very hearty breakfast. 
By the time he was through eating and the cloth had 
been cleared away, he was the same jolly Edward Wil- 
lets of old. 

On a certain night not many weeks after this, as the 
hour was nearing midnight, a passer-by in looking 
through the dingy window of the depot building might 
have seen the Inimitable and Lin practicing on the clos- 
ed keys, one the instructor, the other the instructed, in 
the mysteries of telegraphy. The former is looking re- 
markably neat, considerably dressed up and cleanly 
shaven. 

The stillness of the night is suddenly broken by the 
shrill whistle of a locomotive, which announces the com- 
ing of the New York and St. Louis Express. 

A moment later the train dashes up to the platform. 
Three passengers get off and hurry into the little depot 
waiting-room. The burly conductor, in a blue suit with 
brass buttons, has a lantern strung on his left arm. He 
thrusts his head into the little window that opens from 
the operator’s room into the waiting-room, and in a surly 
voice asks : 


66 


IN TROUBLE. 


“ Chicago train late as usual ?” 

“ Yes, my dear sir, one hour late,” responds Willets, 
in his accustomed cheery voice. 

“Any orders ?” again questions the conductor. 

“ None, my dear sir, none,” answers the operator. 

The conductor turned and shouted out, “ All aboard,” 
as he swung the lantern too and fro, and the train moved 
on. It is no sooner out of sight than the Inimitable is 
on his feet and away up town again to enjoy the exhila- 
rating exercise of the mazy waltz. It is the first party of 
the opening season, and Willets could not think of re- 
maining away. 

Let us now take a look at the three passengers who 
are seated in the little waiting room. One is a very 
handsome young lady in her later teens or early twenties, 
and with her is an English-looliing lady, rather hand- 
some, and perhaps a little older than her companion. 
Their fellow-traveler is an old farmer-looking gentleman 
of the old school, possibly the handsome young lady’s 
father or uncle. 

One is impressed, without hardly being able to tell 
why, that he is a Western farmer, and the impression is 
equally great that he has been shopping at some Eastern 
city, and has bought a great many bundles which he 
seems determined to keep fast hold of. 

There is a large bundle under his right arm and a 
valise in his right hand, and under the left arm there is 
a square shaped something tied up in brown paper and 
fastened with a great many strings. If the square some- 
thing was much larger he could not carry it under one 
arm. 

Then there are two satchels after the style of the old 
fashioned carpet bags, which he holds in his left hand, 
and, in addition to all these, his pockets, in the breast of 
his great coat, look like so many fatted calves. His 
high-topped boots come up to his knees and his great 
coat comes down to the top of his boots. A slouch hat 
partially hides his full brown-bearded face. The beard 
is slightly streaked with gray. 

Three quarters of an hour have passed by since the 


IN TROUBLE. 


67 

St. Louis bound train sped on its way. Only fifteen 
minutes more and the Chicago train will be due. 

Lin rises from the table where he has been practicing 
on closed keys, and looks through the little ticket office 
window into the waiting room. There sit the three pas- 
sengers and every one nodding. The old man’s bundles 
and satchels are sliding and drooping forward, just as 
the walls of some old castle crumble and fall toward a 
common center. 

His bearded chin rests on his big broad chest; his 
slouched hat has fallen lower over his face ; his hands 
have partially relaxed their grasp on the satchels • his 
right leg is thrown across his left knee, and there he sits, 
cramped up, nodding and sleeping, surrounded by his 
many bundles. 

The screech of a locomotive is heard. The Inimit- 
able hurries into the operator’s room just in time to take 
a train order. 

The train is in, the lady travelers rouse up and start 
out on the platform. The handsome young lady runs 
back and shakes the old man, and says : “ Wake up, 
uncle, wake up ! The train is here.” The old man 
starts up and catches at his possessions, hurries out on 
the platform and swings up on the car step just as the 
train moves on. The Inimitable goes out into the wait- 
ing room, stops a moment, stirs up the slumbering em- 
bers in the stove and hurries up town again. Lin re- 
sumes his practicing on the closed keys, and chuckles to 
himself to think how fast he is learning. 

A half hour goes by. 

Suddenly the instrument sounds the station’s call. 

Lin answers. * 

Then comes a message, but he is so confused and ex- 
cited he cannot quite catch it; something about a 
s-a-t-c-h-e-1 then away it goes again too fast for him ; 
then the word d-o-l-l-a-r-s. 

He jumps up and rushes out into the waiting room. 
Then a little later he is on the street, going after Mr. 
Willets. 

Five minutes go by, and they both come. 

In a moment the key is thrown open, the call answer- 


68 


A MIDNIGHT VISIT. 


/ . 

ed, and then comes the message from a station some 
twenty miles up the road. It reads as follows : 

“ Operator at Hampton : 

“ Take care of satchel left in depot. It contains 
Fourteen Thousand Dollars. Stephen Baine.” 

Lin is bending over the Inimitable’s shoulder and 
reads the message. They go out together in silence into 
the little waiting room, but can see no satchel. Then 
Lin looks hard at the Inimitable, who in turn stares at 
Lin. 


CHAPTER VII. 

A MIDNIGHT VISIT TO THE GRAVE-YARD. 

T HE fatal night that made Pen a prisoner in the 
hands of old Hinchey was only one of many 
eventful nights and days that were to follow. 

He tried hard to extricate himself from the grasp of 
his captor, but to no avail, and soon he was conducted 
iF'rk to what they termed the cave, but what, in reality, 
was an old, decaying blacksmith shop. 

The road that once led by it was now overgrown with 
rank weeds, and long since untraveled and almost for- 
gotten. 

Pen had been by the place many times in his rambles, 
for it was quite near to Hampton. 

Once he attempted to push the creaky door farther 
open, but it cried out so piteously with its rusty hinges 
that it frightened him, and he ran away. 

Years ago the sturdy smith had thrown aside his 
leathern apron, and left the wide forge, to cross with the 
Boatman, Death, to the world beyond ; since which time 
it had remained unoccupied, except by bats and vermin, 
until it became a rendezvous for thieves. 

Originally it was built against an abrupt bank of earth 
and made quite a commodious apartment back of the old 
wide forge, now but a mossy mound of earth. 


A MIDNIGHT VISIT. 


69 


When old Hinchey conducted Pen into this damp and 
uninviting place, they found Dick Dare seated at an im- 
provised table, constructed of loose boards, on which a 
candle dimly burned. 

He started up quickly when they entered, and, casting 
a searching glance at Pen, inquired angrily, “ What have 
you here ?” 

“ Oh, this is a fine young man,” replied Hinchey. “A 
smart young man who knows everything, and I think we 
will have to watch him a little, and, maybe, put him to 
some use.” 

As he said this, he chafed his dirty hands together 
over the smouldering embers of some half-burned sticks 
of wood. The fire had been kindled near the old forge, 
and the smoke escaped up through the decaying roof. 

Stooping down he pushed the burning embers nearer 
together, and with his breath started them into a blaze. 
By its light, and the flickering, sickly light of the candle, 
Pen could see what his captors looked like. 

Old Hinchey was an elderly man, and wore, as if it 
specially fitted him, a foreboding look. His eyes were 
very small and very restless, and were shaded with heavv 
shaggy brows ; his face and chin looked like a stubb V' 
field, so coarse and hard was the short bristly beard, 
while his whole look was one of uncleanliness and slov- 
enly habits. 

But what added mostly to his offensive look was an 
incessant, ghastly smile that never for a moment left his 
greasy face, revealing his tobacco-colored teeth, if a few 
old snags and fangs could be called such, the whole giv- 
ing him the aspect of some hungry, carnivorous animal. 

His black hair was now streaked with gray and hung 
in a frowsy fringe about his ears and neck. His greasy 
hands were ornamented with flinty-looking nails, very 
long, underneath which a vast amount of dirt had accu- 
mulated. His companion, Dick Dare, had a more clean- 
ly look and was much younger, rather slight of build, 
always scowling, and looked the worse for dissipation, 
and was in most things a subordinate to the leader, 
Hinchey. 

Dick was the next to speak, and said : 


70 


A MIDNIGHT VISIT. 


“You will put the kid where he will keep, I presume, 
if he is in our way ?” 

“We will talk of that further on,” said old Hinchey. 
“ Now, we will see what he knows and what the dear 
young man has got in his pockets.” 

“ What is your name, my dear young man ?” 

“ I don’t want to tell you, sir,” said the boy, who 
could hardly keep from breaking down in tears. 

“ Don t want to tell old Hinchey what your name 
might be ?” said the questioner. “ Oh, my, he is too 
nice a young man not to tell me what I ask him.” 

“ I wonder,” continued Hinchey, “what the dear young 
man has got in his pockets,” and, suiting the action to 
his inquiry, he proceeded to ransack the boy’s pockets 
through and through. 

“Oh, my dear young man,” said Hinchey, “here is 
something that makes my eyes water to look at. Why, 
you must be a banker. Twenty dollars ! Oh, my ! what 
a profitable little man he was.' And here is a book, a 
Bible ; now, what a nice young man he must be, sure, to 
carry a Bible with him.” 

This last remark old Hinchey seemed to address to 
Dick Dare, who took the book from his hand and opened 
it to see if there was any name. Turning to the first leaf 
he read aloud : “ Presented to Penfield Pembrooke by 
Lillie Baine.” 

“ What ?” cried old Hinchey, spring forward and 
snatching the book from Dir 1 ' hand, as if he could not 
trust his ears, but must read A/e words himself. 

After closely scanning the inscription, he turned to 
Pen, and his ghastly smile, which for a moment had de- 
serted him, came back. 

“ Ah, my young man,” he said, “so your name is 
Pembrooke — Penfield Pembrooke. Now, I wonder 
what your father’s name might be.” 

“ I have no father,” sobbed the boy. “ He is dead.” 

“Oh, he was dead, was he? Well, what was his 
name before he died ?” 

“Leroy Pembrooke, sir,” said Pen, between his sobs. 

“Look here, Hinchey,” said Dick, “you want to go 


A MIDNIGHT VISIT. 


71 


slow with that boy ; you have done enough with his 
father/’ 

But Hinchey seemed not to heed or hear his com- 
panion’s words, and went on questioning him. 

“I wonder, now,” he said, “if such a nice young man 
as you could not show a poor old man like me where he 
was buried, the tombstone, you know?” 

“ Yes, sir,” said Pen ; “ I can show you where both 
my papa and my mamma are buried. But won’t you 
give me back my Bible?” 

“ Give you back your Bible, my dear young man ?” 
said Hinchey. “Now, which would you rather have, the 
Bible or your twenty dollars ?” 

“ The Bible, sir,” quickly responded the boy, “ and I 
will forgive you for having taken my money. I prom- 
ised,” he continued, “ the mother of the little girl who 
gave it to me that I would do my best to shun the ways 
of evil, and would try to be as forgiving toward the 
sins and short-comings of my associates as she was to 
the memory of my poor dead papa, who, she said, had 
caused many deep wrinkles of sorrow to come into her 
face.” 

“ Here is your Bible, boy,” said Dick, as he almost 
jerked it out of old Hinchey’s hands and gave it to Pen. 

“ Look’ee here, Dick,” said Hinchey, in a suppressed 
tone of wrath, “ what are you doing ?” 

“ I am giving the boy back his Bible,” said Dick, 
almost furiously, “and r^'rk me, Hinchey, he is agoing 
to keep it, though I daqeV-P uther of us need it far more 
than he does.” 

“ Don’t be a fool, Dick,” said Hinchey, somewhat 
sobered down. Then, turning to Pen, he said, blandly 
and smiling, “ Of course, the dear young man can keep 
his Bible, but he must read a chapter to old Hinchey 
once in a while ; and now he may tell me where his dear 
papa is buried,” 

“I will show you, sir,” said Pen. “It is only a short 
distance from here.” 

“ Oh, is that so, only a short distance from here ? 
Then we had better go now and see it before it is any 
later. I will get my ‘ bull’s-eye ’ and start right away.” 


72 


A MIDNIGHT VISIT. 


“ And I will go along,” said Dick. 

“ Oh, what you going along for ?” remonstrated old 
Hinchey. 

“I have my reasons,” said Dick, firmly, to which the 
old “ Possum,” as he was sometimes called, mumbled 
out something to the effect that he need not be so mighty 
particular. 

“ But I am particular,” said Dick, “and I mean to go 
along.” 

“ You know very well, Hinchey,” said Dick, aside, 

“ that you blackened many years of Leroy Pembrooke’s 
life, and I swear you are not agoing to harm a hair of 
that boy’s head.” 

“You’d better borrow the boy’s Bible and read a 
chapter and have prayer,” said the old Possum in a scorn- 
ful tone. “I presume you will be turning honest again 
if I don’t watch you.” 

“ I have tried to be honest once since I first com- 
menced this accursed life with you,” said Dick, “but 
wherever I went, East or West, you were always sure to 
hunt me down, and then I would be told that I was an 
ex-sneak-thief, and could go. And so it went on for 
nearly three years, until at last I became weary of being 
branded among honest men as a criminal, and then I 
came back to you, but I have often thought since that it 
would have been better for me to have made a hole in the 
water and named the splashing spray that closed over me, * 
my shroud.” 

“ Well,” said Hinchey, “ jfou came to me and I was 
kind to you, gave you a home, and everything.” 

“ I know I came to you,” said Dick, “and you know 
well why I came. I gave up my sister’s love, my home, 
my friends, my position in society, my name, everything, 
and became the joint property and slave of yourself and 
strong drink.” 

“They say,” said old Hinchey with great suavity, 
“that a calm comes after the storm, and I guess this is a 
wind-storm ; and I have heard it was an ‘ill wind that 
blows nobody good,’ ha ! ha !” 

“ Yes,” responded Dick, “ it is a devil of an ill w?hd 
that blows no one good, but that’s just the kind of a 


A MIDNIGHT VISIT. 


73 


breeze you are always stirring up. When the wind com- 
mences to blow from your quarter it means misery and 
woe to your victims.” 

“It may go a little hard with my patrons,” said Hin- 
chey, “ but it wins me something.” 

“ It may for the time being be a winning wind to 
you,” replied Dick, “but mark my word, the time is 
coming when all winds will be against you.” 

While Dick is making this last observation, old Hin- 
chey is fumbling with the keys at a long dark box which 
he at all times kept locked. Presently the lid closes 
down, and the click of the lock is heard, and he comes 
to the board with a large black bottle. He pours out a 
glass full of its contents and offers it to Dick, with the 
admonition to get some heart into him. 

Dick starts up, seems for a moment firm, but it is only 
for a moment, and then he eagerly stretches forth his 
hand for the glass and quaffs off the liquor at a single 
draught. 

“ How is that ?” inquires Hinchey. 

“ That, sir,” responds Dick, “ makes me your submis- 
sive slave again. Pour out another glass — there — ” and 
again he lifts it to his lips and drinks to the dregs. 

“ Now,” said Hinchey, “ don’t take another religious 
freak until we get back to the city.” 

“ Look here, Hinchey,” said Dick, in a rather hilarious 
tone, “ the only thing the matter with me, by George, 
was simply a slight heaviness of the heart ; in other 
words, I was blue, but that’s passed now and I feel like 
myself again. But mind, Hinchey, I am going with you 
and the boy to the grave-yard.” 

“ Well, if you are going, come on, for I am starting,” 
replied Hinchey, and catching hold of Pen’s hand, they 
walked away into the darkness, closely followed by the 
now happy Dick. 

As they went along Dick said, “ I suppose you can 
sleep better if you are sure Pembrooke is in his grave?” 

“ Hush, hush !” said Hinchey, “you must be more 
discreet.” 

Dick by this time felt quite good natured, and so he 
offered no remark, as they all three trudged silently 


74 


A MIDNIGHT YISIT. 


along toward the little grave-yard at Hampton, which 
was soon reached. They stepped carefully over the 
wooden steps and soon were among the tombs— so 
solemn and still that the rustling ot the dry and withered 
leaves, as they walked among the mounds of earth, seem- 
ed a cruel invasion of its silence ; while the stealthiness 
with which they had stolen into the very presence of the 
sleeping dead seemed to Pen a stern rebuke to the sacred 
memory of the departed. 

The wooden head-boards that had at first been set up, 
but now replaced by marble and granite stones, lay half 
buried in the earth and overgrown with grasses, decaying 
and rotting as if they, too, claimed the right of burial and 
sought to intermingle their crumbling particles with the 
church-yard earth and the dust of men. 

At last they came to a place where two unpretentious 
white slabs had recently been set up, and here Pen kneel- 
ed down, and, hiding his face in his hands, wept in si- 
lent, stilled sobs as if his tender heart would break. 

Dick looked kindly and feelingly at the boy, and at 
last was forced to draw his own coarse sleeve across his 
cheek, and brush away a little stranger-tear, then bend- 
ing down close to old Hinchey’s ear, he whispered: “ By 
George, it’s sort of touching ain’t it ? ” 

But old Hinchey paid no attention to what he said. 
Indeed he seemed lost to all else in scrutinizing the in- 
scriptions on the tombstones. At last, when he had 
copied the inscription on a piece of dirty paper, he rose 
to go. 

He shook the boy and said, “ Come on,” but Pen 
looked up and said, pleadingly, “ Oh, please sir, wait a 
moment.” 

Dick, quick as thought, laid a strong hold on the old > 
man’s collar and pulled him suddenly away before he 
could reply, and whispered hurriedly in his ear, “ By 
George, Hinchey, you let that boy pray or there will be - 
trouble.” 

Whether is was the sudden jerk he had received, or 
the strangeness of so many white slabs of stone, or his 
satisfaction at learning that Leroy Pembrooke was surely | 
dead, or whether it was something else that caused him 


A MIDNIGHT VISIT. 


75 . 


to submit to Dick’s command, certain it is that he did 
submit, and remained standing where Dick let go of 
him, as silent and motionless as a marble column. 

Dick kneeled down between the motionless form of 
old Hinchey and the kneeling boy. Then with true 
reverence and veneration he removed his cap and listened, 
while the weeping boy sobbed forth a prayer, — one that 
his mother had taught him to lisp at her knee when he 
was scarce more than a prattling babe. When he came 
to the close and said, “ Amen,” Dick responded heartily 
with, “Amen. God bless the boy.” 

Not another word was spoken as the three withdrew. 
With silent tread they retraced their steps to their 
quarters in the old shop. A lunch was set out by Dick, 
and Pen was requested by Hinchey to sit at the board 
and eat, for they were going on a journey. 

Pen could hardly swallow a single morsel. 

When they were through, old Hinchey consulted his 
watch and announced the time as two o’clock in the 
morning. Soon they were on their way. Pen had 
begged piteously to be set free, but old Hinchey said he 
had use for him, and “ I will, my dear young man,” said 
he, “ show you such purty things in the big city, and 
then the dear boy can go to Sunday school and church 
every Sunday, and be such a good little Christian. Oh, 
it was so nice.” 

Pen said nothing, but trudged on silently between 
the speaker and Dick, who, he felt, was disposed to be 
friendly toward him. 

Presently they came out into the road that led down 
near the depot building and away into the country 
beyond. When they came opposite the depot they could 
plainly see the long slim figure of Edward Willets, Esq., 
through the window, and indistinctly hear him talking. 

“ Hold on,” said Dick, “ let us hear what they are 
saying.” 

They paused and listened, but could hear only one 
voice. The facts were that Willets was all alone and 
indulging in bursts of eloquence and poetry. 

Presently his voice rose higher, and they heard him 
say: 


76 


PEN LEARNS HIS FATHER’S HISTORY. 


“ Oh, how I long to leave this lonely villa 
And live with you forever, my charming Cinderilla.” 

“By George/' said Dick, “Cinderilla is the name of 
my sister.” 

“Hush,” said Hinchey. “What's that he is saying? 
I guess he is making a Fourth of July speech.” 

“Friends and highly esteemed fellow-citizens,” Wil- 
lets was saying, “This is a day held sacred to national 
memory wherever the magnanimous-hearted American 
is to be found, whether in the frontier forts where the 
sentry paces his weary round, or upon the rolling ship 
as it speeds along before the gale in foreign seas. It is 
a day that brings back to mankind the early recollections 
of youth, and makes him live again in spirit, with the 
poetic muse, among the scenes of his childhood — the 
fire-cracker period of his life — now held sacred in the 
archives of memory. There was a time, my fellow-citi- 
zens, years and years ago, when your humble speaker 
was the pet of a loving, poetic household, but it was a 
long, long time tince, and its memory to me to-day is 
the one green oasis of my past.” 

Here the Inimitable paused for breath, and old 
Hinchey, not caring to be longer entertained, gave the 
order to move on, and silently they glided away into the 
darkness. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

PEN LEARNS HIS FATHER’S HISTORY. 

W E will not pause here to speak of Tobs, the 
“ Hinglishman,” more than to say that he was 
sorely grieved to hear nothing of Pen more 
than the empty box under the wagon revealed to him, 
which certainly was rather a dry piece of furniture from 
which to gain information or consolation. 

We must turn from the McGufhn farm and from the 
exciting scenes that are being enacted at Hampton, and 


PEN LEAKNS HIS FATHERS HISTOBY. 77 


follow Pen to his city home in Cinapolis, where he has 
been during the months that have intervened since we 
saw him last. 

Cinapolis is a city of some note on the Ohio River. 
Not far away from the wharf landing is a narrow, much 
neglected street, built up on either side mostly with 
buildings of brick after the pattern of fifty years or more 
ago. Occasionally, however, an old frame building can 
be found wedged in among the former class of struc- 
tures. At one time it was the business thoroughfare of 
Cinapolis, but succeeding years and enterprise had 
pushed or drawn the business center many blocks away, 
and left it a deserted, tumbling-down part of the city, 
still Cinapolis in name, it is true, but now with a differ- 
ent meaning from what this street then had half a cen- 
tury ago. 

Some of these buildings were occupied in part, others 
were entirely vacant. Signs were fastened in the win- 
dows announcing the intelligence that the rooms were 
“To let.” But even they seemed to have been put up 
years ago, and the devouring hand of time had chipped 
off many of the letters, and the boards on which these 
notices were painted were decaying and rotting away 
like the buildings to which they were fastened, now 
crumbling and sinking down. 

The second floors and the basements of some of them 
were occupied by low families, deeply steeped in want 
and ignorance, and other apartments were occupied by 
lodgers of both sex, of all ages, as deeply steeped in 
vice and sin. 

In the garret-room of one of these decaying struc- 
tures, accessible only by a rickety outside stairway, 
which leads up from a narrow, filthy alley in the rear, 
are seated old Hinchey, Dick Dare and little Pen. This 
has been their winter quarters. A candle is dimly burn- 
ing on an aged table, and a smouldering fire is smok- 
ing in a broken, dilapidated stove. 

It is a wild night without, but notwithstanding all 
that, old Hinchey is preparing to go on some errand. 
Perhaps his errand is of such a nature that the wildness 
of the night will aid him in making a success of it. 


78 


PEN LEARNS HIS FATHER’S HISTORY. ' 


“ Don’t you think,” old Hinchey was saying, with 
that same unmeaning, frightful grin on his face, which 
exposed to view his almost toothless gums, “ that you 
would like to go out with old Hinchey and learn some 
more nice tricks ?” 

The words were undoubtedly addressed to Pen, but 
Dick chose to answer for him. “ I tell you, Hinchey, 
the boy is not well and has no business out on such a 
night as this.” 

“ Oh, I guess the dear young man will not die before 
the morning,” replied Hinchey. “Then,” he continued, 
“ a nice little boy like Pembrooke can get into a window 
so much easier than an old man like me ; come on, my 
dear young man, get ready.” 

“ Oh, please, sir,” pleaded Pen. 

“Look’ee here, Hinchey,” interposed Dick, “you 
have had that boy out in all kinds of weather at least 
three or four nights a week all winter, and he is mighty 
near used up, and I swear by the powers that be, that he 
shall not go out to-night.” 

Dick had risen to his feet as he ceased speaking, and 
looked old Hickey square in the face. 

“Oh, well, if the dear young man is sick, why he’d 
better stay indoors,” said old Hinchey, in the blandest 
and most unruffled tone of voice in the world. 

As he said this he moved toward the door, turned 
round, bowed low and said with great suavity of manner 
and his most ghastly grin, “Good-night, my dears; 
good-night !” and then was gone. 

Pen got up and drew his chair close to Dick’s, and 
had just sat down when the door suddenly opened and 
the frowzy head of old Hinchey was thrust in, and again 
he said, “ Good-night, my dears ; good-night ! Don’t 
spark too late, for the dear young man is sick. Ha ! ha 1 
ha !” he laughed, almost savagely. 

Pen thought he had never heard such a frightful laugh 
in all his life, as it echoed and re-echoed throughout the 
hollow, empty garret. 

“I say, Hinchey,” said Dick, “isn’t it blowing too 
severely for you to go out to-night ?” 


PEN LEARNS HIS FATHER’S HISTORY. 79 


“ Oh, I have heard it said,” he replied, “ that it was an 
ill wind that blows nobody good.” 

“ Well, I don’t think,” said Dick, “that you will win 
anything to-night, it’s too rough.” 

“ It will blow somebody good,” said Hinchey. “ Some- 
body will lose and somebody will win, and old Hinchey 
feels that it’s a winning wind for him. Now I’ll go. 
Good night, my dears, good night !” 

The door had hardly closed when he re-opened it. 
hastily, and again said : 

“ My dear young man, you’d better read a chapter in 
your Bible and pray a little, and don’t forget to pray for 
old Hinchey !” Then that hollow, ghostly laugh echoed 
throughout the room again, and caused cold chills to 
creep over the boy. Again the door slammed, and they 
heard him going slowly down the creaky steps. 

When they were thus left alone Dick rose to his feet 
and said, “ I will make you a cup of good hot tea, my 
boy, and perhaps it will make you feel better.” 

“Thank you,” said Pen. 

Presently he spoke again, and said, “ What a funny 
man old Hinchey is ; his very laugh frightened me so 
that I am trembling yet.” 

“ He is the Devil's imp,” said Dick, “and faithfully 
obeys his master.” 

“ Why do you stay with him, Dick ?” asked Pen. 
“ Why don’t you run away ?” 

“ Speak low, my boy,” said Dick as he went to the 
door, and carefully opening it peered out into the dark- 
ness. Then closing and securely fastening it, he came 
back to Pen’s side, seated himself and began : 

“ Pen, my boy, I intended to leave him immediately 
on our return to the city from Hampton, and would, 
had it not been for you. I remained to keep watch and 
see that no harm befell you. I have observed your 
patience and forbearance, in your trials here, and at 
night when you thought I was asleep I heard your pray- 
ers and supplications ; and many times when you and 
old Hinchey were out I have taken down your little 
Bible and read its sacred teachings. I will tell you now, 
(for I may never have a better opportunity,) your 


80 PEN LEARNS HIS FATHER’S HISTORY. 

father’s story and old Hinchey’s too. In fact, I could 
not tell the one unless I told the other. The circum- 
stances which I shall narrate happened when I was a 
mere child. 

“Old Hinchey’s real name is Henry McGuffin, and 
his childhood’s home was on a little rocky New England 
farm. This, and more which I will relate, he has told 
me at different times, else I would not have known it, 
for he is many years my senior. His father was an in- 
temperate, cruel man, an infidel, believing neither in 
God nor man, and especially disbelieving in woman. 
He treated his wife with great cruelty. He considered 
all forms of religion much as Hinchey considers them 
now — a farce which only ignorant, w r eak-headed men 
and silly women can engage in. Hinchey had a brother 
Charles, several years his junior, who was not quite so 
hardened as himself, though following hard in his 
tracks. 

“ When Hinchey arrived at his twentieth birth-day, 
and looked back over his earlier years, he could remem- 
ber nothing but hardships, privations, and sufferings, 
and, from what he tells me, I know that his mother, who 
had passed away a few years earlier, died of a broken 
heart. But shall I tell you that even now w T hen bespeaks 
of her, which is seldom, it is with a reckless, uncaring 
disregard ; even exults in the ill-usage and insults which 
she received at his hands, and says of her that she was a 
weak and silly woman wffio believed there w T as a God. 
At twenty he was wildly pursuing a wild and depraved 
life, which could not help but entangle him in difficul- 
ties. Finally a robbery of a fearfully daring and aggra- 
vated nature w r as committed. Hinchey was suspected 
and arrested, found guilty, and sentenced to five years 
in the penitentiary. He served his full term and was 
released, returning to his old home on a certain balmy 
evening in the month of June, from which he had been 
taken just five years before. 

“ His road led him by the old church-yard where still 
stood the ivied church, in which, as he termed it, his weak 
and silly mother had so often bowed in prayer pleading for 
his waywardness. When he came opposite the old steps, 


PEN LEARNS HIS FATHER’S HISTORY* 81 


over which he had so often climbed, he paused, and step- 
ping over, walked out among the tombs, but with no such 
feelings, Pen, my boy, as yours were, that night in the 
Hampton grave-yard, but like a money-lender who 
searches the records to see what lands are mortgaged, so 
Hinchey searched the inscriptions on the granite monu- 
ments and marble slabs in a cold, unfeeling way, for a 
record of those who had died. 

“ Passing out presently, he hurried on along the old 
path that he had trodden so often with childish feet, and 
just as the last mellow light of the evening sun was fall- 
ing, casting a rich glow over the growing fields of 
grain, and lengthening the shadows of the tall trees, he 
came to the old house — the home of his childhood, the 
house where he had been born. 

“ He looked over the fence that seemed so much 
lower than it formerly was, and well remembered the 
time when it seemed to be a high wall to him. 

“ He heard voices within, but they were the voices of 
strangers, and they seemed to be making merry. So 
different, he thought, from anything he had ever known 
while living there. The stately trees in the yard alone 
looked as if they had held their own in size. Everything 
else seemed to have grown lower and smaller. There, 
too, was an old ash-leach behind which he had so often 
hidden from his drunken, abusive father’s sight. 

“ The darkness of night stole softly on, and presently 
the lamps were lighted. Then through the window he 
saw the happy group within, and among others who were 
there was Leroy Pembrooke, your father. With clench- 
ed fists, and muttering curses between his set teeth, he 
turned and walked hastily away, swearing revenge on 
Leroy Pembrooke, who had been the principal witness 
against him when he was tried and convicted, five years 
before. Such were his feelings and wicked determina- 
tions. 

“ He had chuckled to himself many times when in 
prison, and eagerly looked forward through the weary 
perspective of his confinement to a time when he should 
be liberated and freed from his galling imprisonment. 

4* 


82 


PEN LEARNS HIS FATHER’S HISTORY. 


Then he would say to himself, ‘ I’ll pay ’em back ; I’ll 
make Pembrooke, damn him, pay for this !’ 

“No face welcomed his return, nor did he wish for 
any welcome. No look of forgiveness was bestowed on 
him, nor did he long to be forgiven. 

“No friendly hand stretched forth to help him, nor 
did he want help. No words of friendly counsel were- 
breathed in his ears, nor would he have listened to them 
if they had been showered around him. 

“ He found lodgings in a low filthy quarter of the 
nearest town of any note, and waited for his time. He 
soon found his brother Charles, who was then a stalwart 
lad well up in his teens, and together they planned. The 
person who resided in old Hinchey’s boy-hood home was 
a Mr. Macley, a widower of considerable wealth, most 
of which was in ready money. 

“ He had two lovely tw T in daughters, Clara and Bertha. 
A young man by the name of Stephen Baine was be- 
trothed to Clara, and the arrangement seemed highly 
satisfactory to old Mr. Macley. Your father, Leroy Pem- 
brooke, paid great attention to Bertha, while at home on 
his summer vacation from college, but for some reason, 
not known, old Mr. Macley was very bitterly opposed 
to his suit, but, notwithstanding the old gentleman’s op- 
position, he and Bertha Macley were betrothed before he 
returned to Chalmer University, where he was attending 
school. The fact of the old gentleman’s opposition to 
your father’s suit was no secret. The McGuffin boys 
got wind of it, and also knew that old Mr. Macley had a 
.considerable sum of money in his house. How to ob- 
tain possession of the old man’s wealth, and at the same 
time implicate your father in the crime, occupied for the 
time being, all their secret councils. 

“ They were successful in their plottings, and it was 
brought about in this w r ay. 

“ First, however, I will state that about this time 
Stephen Baine and Clara Macley w^ere married, and com- 
menced housekeeping a couple of miles distant from 
the old gentleman’s, which left Bertha and her father 
alone. 

‘Charles McGuffin, in pursuance of the plot his 


PEN LEARNS HIS FATHER’S HISTORY. 88 


brother, old Hinchey, had planned, would every after- 
noon walk by the place. Occasionally he would stop 
and chat with old Mr. Macley and his daughter, Bertha. 
He would not remain long, however, and would take 
'occasion to state that he was going down to the village 
post-office for his mail. Finally, it got to be quite nat- 
ural for them to send letters by him to post, and to bring 
their mail back as he went home. At last Bertha con- 
fided in him to the extent of saying that she did not 
want her father to know of her sending letters to Leroy 
Pembrooke, and asked him to always be careful and 
give her the letters when he brought them from the of- 
fice. 

“As soon as Charles got to carrying their mail in 
this way, his brother removed his lodging to an up-, 
stairs room opposite the post-office, in the village of 
Greenwood, where Bertha posted and received all her 
letters. 

“ When Charles brought a letter to the post, or re- 
ceived one, it was first carried to the brother’s room and 
ingeniously opened and read. In this manner they kept 
thoroughly posted. 

“ Old Hinchey, among other accomplishments, is a 
clever forger, very handy with a pen, and so he com- 
menced adding postscripts to each letter in such a clever 
and similar hand that it was never suspected. 

“ In less than three months after this commenced, 
the young couple had concluded to be married at once. 
How much old Hinchey was to blame for this hasty and 
premature conclusion, I cannot say. I only know that, 
soon after this, Leroy Pembrooke and Bertha Macley were 
married against her father’s express command. They 
took a short wedding trip, and on their return home old 
Grandfather Penfield Pembrooke, Leroy’s father, and 
for whom you were named, no doubt, threw open 
wide his doors and bade them welcome. 

“Your father was an only child, and his parents loved 
him for his good qualities. They forgave him his hasty 
and many times imprudent acts, and passed them lightly 
over, and said his follies, if he had any, were occasioned 
by the impetuosity of youth. 


84 


PEN LEARNS HIS FATHER’S HISTORY. 


“At that time I was twelve years old and my little 
sister, Cinderilla, was scarce two years old. We were 
living with your grandfather, where my sister is still liv- 
ing, if she is alive. We were orphans. Our father came 
over with his young wife from England, and I was born 
in mid-ocean. When a few years later my little sister 
was born, my mother sickened and died, and in less than 
a year after, my father followed her to the silent city. 

“ He had brought over some money with him from 
England, but it was all gone. Through the kindness of 
your grandfather we were given a home. 

“ My father had a younger brother, whose name was 
George, but, in reply to a letter we sent to England, we 
were informed that he had gone to the East Indies, and 
to this day I have never heard a word of him. 

“ As I was saying about old Mr. Macley, he was very 
bitter against his daughter’s marriage with your father, 
and on two different occasions they had very hot words ; 
both got very angry and threatened each other very 
hard. 

“ This went on for several months, until one evening 
after dark, just as your father was mounting his horse at 
the little village preparatory to starting home, a dis- 
guised, muffled-up individual, who wore a slouched hat 
clear down over his eyes, approached and handed him a 
letter, and then seemed to vanish in the darkness. 

“Your father mounted his horse, and drew up in 
front of a lighted building, opened and read the letter, 
which was signed by his father-in-law, old Mr. Macley. 
It requested him to stop as he went home, and they 
would talk over their troubles and be peaceably recon- 
ciled. This was glad news to your father, and he has- 
tened on toward the old gentleman’s house. Arriving 
there, he dismounted and went to the door, which was 
open, but no light was burning wdthin. He stepped 
inside, and just as he did so he stumbled and fell over a 
prostrate and lifeless body. As he arose to his feet some- 
thing was dashed against his shirt front and face, but not 
a sound was uttered. He hastily lit a lamp, and there, 
before him, lay the corpse of his father-in-law, weltering 
in his own blood, with his throat cut from ear to ear. 


THE ESCAPE. 


85 


“ He wiped his face and looked down at his clothing, 
and, to his horror, found it was human blood. He rush- 
ed out and rode home, aroused every one, and they 
hastened back to the scene of the tragedy. 

“ A knife was found which was identified as the prop- 
erty of your father. He was accused of the murder, but 
protested his innocence and produced the note which had 
brought him to the murdered man’s house ; but Stephen 
Baine, his wife Clara, and even Bertha, identified the 
handwriting as that of your father, and in a letter, which 
he wrote the next night from some obscure retreat where 
he had taken refuge, he acknowledged that the writing 
did look like his own, but he protested his innocence and 
said he knew nothing about the murder. 

“Notwithstanding this, he was believed to be the 
guilty party, even by his own father and mother, and his 
wife, Bertha. 

“Not a cent of the murdered man’s money could be 
found. The murderer, whoever he was, had taken the 
last penny. A few months after this a little baby girl 
was born to the heart-broken young wife, and was 
christened, ‘ Katie L. Pembrooke,’ the L., the young 
mother said, was for Leroy. 

“ Three years later Bertha Pembrooke died of a 
broken heart. I was there when she passed away. One 
hand she laid on the sunny head of little Katie, and, with 
the other reached upward, as if she were calling, and 
died with the name ‘ Leroy’ trembling on her lips.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE ESCAPE FROM OLD HINCHEY. 

T HE wind was still whistling cheerlessly through the 
streets and alleys of Cinapolis, when old Hinchey 
turned his steps homeward, if such a garret 
lodging place in a tumble-down old building could be 
called a home. 


86 


THE ESCAPE. 


He carried a bundle under his arm, and as he walked, 
or rather shuffled, along, through the deserted alleys, he 
seemed so stooped and bent that he hardly had the sem- 
blance of a man. 

When at last he came to the stairs that led up to his 
miserable lodging, he crawled rather than walked up to 
the door, which, to his surprise, he found to be securely 
fastened. Forthwith he applied to the panels the toe of 
his shoe with great vehemence, and kept it up until 
Dick, rousing up from a sound sleep and dropping the 
thread of his dream, hastened to let him in. 

“ Why did you fasten the door ?” he asked between 
his chattering teeth. “Did you want to keep me out all 
night ? ” 

Dick mumbled out some excuse, climbed back into 
bed again, and was soon fast asleep. No doubt he took 
up the thread of his dream just where it had been 
dropped, and dreamed on in happy anticipations of a 
better life. 

Old Hinchey sparingly added a few fresh lumps of 
coal to the dormant fire, which roused up presently, as 
if it, too, had been taking a nap. He then drew a chair 
close to the rickety stove and proceeded to rub his 
greasy, dirty hands together, while he stared deep into 
the burning coals with his glistening, restless eyes, 
waiting for the basin of tea he had prepared to steep. 

“Must go before long,” he mused. “Charlie is a 
jolly brother, sells lots of things, though he does drive 
a hard bargain with me sometimes. I wonder why he 
wants me to watch the dear young man so closely. I 
expect the boy is up to some of my good brother’s 
tricks. Well, the river will soon break up, and then I’ll 
put him on a boat and send him South so far he will 
bother nobody. I guess I’ll start to-morrow for the 
cave, and sell my beauties.” 

As he said this he . looked beamingly down at his 
bundles. He then brought out a cold lunch, from which 
he ate greedily, stopping occasionally to drink off a 
draught of hot and steaming tea. When he was through 
he stole softly to the couch where the boy lay peacefully 


THE ESCAPE. 


87 


sleeping, dreaming perhaps of little golden-tressed Lillie 
Baine. 

“ I guess the dear young man is not so very sick,” 
he muttered, as he went silently to his own bunk, and 
soon after he was sniffing, wheezing and snoring away 
until the very rafters of the old building were echoing 
his baritone notes. 

It was late the following mprning before they were 
astir, but finally Dick announced that breakfast was in 
readiness, and they all sat down to the table, inhaling 
the delicious odor arising from brimful cups of coffee. 
They ate heartily of the brown bread and butter, and 
fine broiled steak smoking hot, which Dick had pre- 
pared with great credit to himself. 

After the breakfast was over, old Hinchey announced 
that he was going away for a few days' tramp. Accord- 
ingly, early that afternoon, he set out alone, leaving Dick 
and Pen together, both the happier for his having gone. 

“ Now, my boy,” said Dick, soon after they were 
alone, “ we will pack up, too, and take a tramp, and my 
greatest wish is that if we ever see old Hinchey again it 
will be when he has a black cap over his head and a good 
stout rope around his neck.” 

“ Amen !” answered Pen. “ It may be a wicked wish, 
but I owe him one for my father’s sake. And now, Mr. 
Dick,” continued Pen, with great earnestness, “ you do 
not know how happy you have made me, and in return, 
Dick,” said the boy, drawing softly to his side, “I will 
make you, oh! so happy, if you can only forget strong 
drink.” 

“Hush, hush!” responded Dick, with great emotion, 
“ don’t mention my master’s name or you will make me 
weak. I will only promise this, that, with your counsel 
and help, I will try hard to be my own master.” 

“ Amen !” said the boy. 

“ Now,” said Dick, “let us be going.” 

“Yes, yes,” responded Pen, cheerily, “let us get 
away from this dismal, wicked place, never to come 
back or even think of it again. Together we will wan- 
der out from under its darkening shade, and come at 
last into the open light of sunny happiness, and every 


88 


THE ESCAPE. 


gentle breeze that blows will win us farther and farther 
away from the life old Hinchey leads.” 

“ We will,” said Dick, “and trust ourselves to God. 
We may yet see many cheerful days, and learn to forget 
this time as if it had never been, or, if remembered at 
all, only as a broken dream.” 

“ True, true,” said the boy. “ We must always put 
our trust in God, and I am sure if we earnestly beseech 
him, He will lead us from the low valley of darkness 
and woe to the high hill of light and happiness. Al- 
ready,” he continued, “ I feel happier than at any time 
since my parents’ death — happy almost as I used to be 
when I wandered forth alone into the deep woods to 
gather the wild flowers from the grassy banks of the 
little brook near my old home.” 

“One word, Pen, before we start,” said the boy’s 
companion, “ never call me Dick after we leave this ac- 
cursed place, but call me Richard.” 

“I promise,” said the boy, “and the old name we will 
leave in the garret room along with other memories we 
fain would forget, and from which we are fleeing 
away.” 

The slanting rays of the afternoon sun were casting 
long shadows eastward, when these two passed for the 
last time out at the creaky door and down the old rickety 
steps of the alley. 

Not a word was spoken as they pressed on in glad 
silence, elated with glowing hopes of something better 
than they were leaving. 

The evening drew on and darkness was closing in ; 
still on they went through the whole length of Cinapolis 
and away toward the manufactories, whose huge furnaces 
lighted up the dark sky. While they are thus journey- 
ing on, we will, for a time, leave them, and invite the 
reader back to the McGufiin farm, where we left Tobsin 
great suspense because of Pen’s long absence. 

As we draw near, the first voice that breaks upon us is 
that of C. McGufiin, Esq. who is in a fit of rage, it seems, 
as he lustily calls for Tobs. 

“ By thunder ! Where can he be ?” says the Phenom- 
enal McGufiin. “It does seem,” he continued, “that 


THE ESCAPE. 


89 


nobody knows where anybody is, and everything is out 
of place.” 

“Hits me you’re calling, was hit ?” inquired a voice 
near his elbow. 

McGuffin hastily turned about and confronted Tobs. 
“ Yes, sir/’ he shouted, “ you are the very chap I want ; 
here is a letter for you ; now read it, — or shall I read it 
for you ?” 

“No, thank’ee, sir, Hi guess Hi can read my hown 
letters.” 

“Well, I didn’t know,” said McGuffin, “but what it 
might be from that scape-grace of a boy, Pen Pem- 
brooke.” 

“ Well, hif hit w T as from ’im, Hi don’t know w’y you 
should read hit.” 

“Be careful,” said McGuffin, “be careful, Tobs, and 
don’t get impudent. You never have yet, and you don’t 
want to commence now.” 

Tobs made no reply to this, but stole away toward the 
barn, where he could be alone to read his letter. He 
went into the wagon-shed and seating himself on the 
very box that Pen had taken his twenty-mile ride in, ex- 
amined the missive. It was dated some ten days after 
Pen’s disappearance, and was written on a miserable old 
piece of greasy paper, and read as follows : 

“Dear Tobs : — Old McGuffin is a thief. I got caught 
by old Hinchey and Dick Dare. They are both asleep 
now. We are on a boat on the river. I will give this 
to a lady and beg her to send it to you. I heard old 
Hinchey say we would stop at some place soon, but I 
did not hear the name. I have my Bible yet and pray 
for you every night. 

“ Good-by Tobs, I’ll get away and come back before 
long. 

“ Yours truly, 

“ Penfield Pembrooke. 

“ P. S. — Don’t tell Mr. McGuffin you got this let- 
ter.” 


90 


THE ESCAPE. 


“No, Hi guess Hi-11 ’ardly tell ’im about hit/ 
thought Tobs, as he quickly slipped off his shoe and 
placed the letter beneath the insole. 

There is a sensation which steals over us, at times, of 
the immediate presence of some one. Although we do 
not see them, we feel a disturbed conviction that we arc 
not alone. 

This was Tobs’ feeling when he was tying up his 
shoe. He did not care to look and search about for the 
presence of the unknown, but determined to remove 
himself to some place of absolute secrecy and then re- 
move the letter from his shoe and burn it to ashes. 

Accordingly he strolled out from the wagon-shed, 
and away through the orchard, down by a heavy growth 
of hedge. There, hastily removing the letter from its 
place of concealment, he lighted a match and soon little 
Pen’s letter, that Tobs would have liked so much to 
keep, was rapidly burned to ashes, and only the blue 
smoke curling away so listlessly and the falling ashes, 
much whiter than the paper, marked the close, and si- 
lently proclaimed its mission ended. 

Just as the last semblance of smoke was disappearing, 
Tobs heard a footstep behind him. Turning around, he 
found himself face to face with Mr. McGuffin, who 
sternly demanded, “ What have you been doing ?” 

“Hi was just burning that letter, you know,” said 
Tobs. 

“ What did you do that for?’’ said McGuffin, sternly, 
while an evil look, more frightful than ever, appeared 
on his countenance. 

Tobs noted his dangerous look and concluded to ex- 
tricate himself by stratagem from McGuffin’s disfavor, 
and so he said : 

“ Hit was too good nevvs, sir, to be true. Hi am no 
longer a pauper, you know, but ’ave expectations to quite 
a fortune, sir.” 

“ What ?” said the Phenomenal McGuffin, his whole 
countenance changing to a look of greedy pleasure. 
“ Are you going to get some wealth ?” 

“Hi think so, sir,” replied Tobs, “ hif nothing ’ap- 
pens, you know.” 


THE ESCAPE. 


91 


“Tobs, my friend,” said McGuffin, warmly, “here 
is my hand, and with it my best wishes that your hopes 
may be realized at a mighty early day.” 

“Thank'ee, sir, for your ’earty wish,” responded 
Tobs. 

It cannot be said that Tobs had stated other than the 
truth, for he was sure that if he could once get McGuf- 
fin in his power he would have no trouble in getting 
back the money he had robbed him of, years before. 
Neither was it an unnatural act on McGuffin’s part to 
extend a ready hand to that which promised prosper- 
ity. 

Every day we see the same spirit manifested all 
around us. 

The poor laborer hurrying home at nightfall, with 
smirched face and soiled closing, is passed by unnoticed. 
Not even a nod of recognition greets him. And when 
on the Sabbath-day he attends service with his cleanly but 
poorly clad family about him, how cold and chilly the 
temperature is made by glossy broadcloth and rustling 
silks. Even the clergyman in many of our fashionable 
churches seem to look upon those in humble circum- 
stances as if they were but tenants, and not partners, in 
the vineyard of the Lord. 

But let sudden wealth dawn upon this poor laborer, 
and how marked the change, both in the church and on 
the street ! 

Friendly hands are extended to him everywhere and 
under all circumstances. His clothes are never too 
much soiled for him to be invited into the most richly 
furnished parlors, and his hands never too rough to be 
warmly clasped by the aged, the middle-aged, and the 
young. Such is custom. 

Tobs was a man of fair education and good judgment. 
To be sure, since the loss of his money, his . life had been 
a blank, and he seemed to have existed in a half dazed 
state, with a belief that McGuffin had his money and a 
vague hope that sometime he would recover it. 

The evening of the day on which he received Pen’s 
letter, he walked to the Mills and called on Tim Man- 
nahan, the postmaster, and was cordially greeted by that 
gentlemanly official with : 


92 


THE ESCAPE. 


“By me -soul, if it isn’t afther being Tobs. Why, 
sure, sir, give us yer hand. How does the evening find 
yez, I don’t know? ” 

Hi ham rather well, you know,” replied Tobs, “ ’ow 
his yerself ? ” 

■“ Ah, sure, and I am afther being quite well, thank 
you,” replied Tim. 

“ Hi want to ’ave a confidential talk with you, Mr. 
Mannahan,” saids Tobs, after a moment’s pause. 

“ Sure, now,” said Tim, “ I wonder what could be 
the mather ? Be afther steppin’ inside the railin’, Tobs, 
and take this seat.” 

“ Thank’ee, sir, Hi’ll just lay my ’at hon yer counter,” 
said Tobs, as he deposited that article of wear and took 
the offered seat. 

Then followed a long consultation between the two, 
in a very low tones and sometimes half audible whispers. 

Their consultation lasted a full hour, and then they 
arose both seemingly highly pleased with the conference, 
and were soon carefully examining Tim’s stock of re- 
volvers. 

Shortly after, they emerged from the store to the 
street in front, and when old Tim had locked the door, 
good night was said, and each started for home. 

The evening following this, about five o’clock, Me- 
Guffin asked Tobs to hitch up his best team to his best 
wagon. 

The day had been very chilly and cloudy, and the 
wind was blowing a strong gale. Sprinkles of cold rain 
were falling, but notwithstanding the inclemency of the 
weather C. McGuffin, Esq., started out on his journey, 
which certainly could not be otherwise than very lonely. 
The darkness came on, darker and darker, and the wind 
blew harder and harder ; the rain came down faster and 
faster, not straight down, but came at the Phenomenal 
McGuffin sidewise, with just about such a slant as 
marching soldiers hold their guns across their should- 
ers. 

But neither the darkness, the wind nor the pelting 
rain prevented him from keeping steadily on his course. 

Occasionally the wind would die away as if it had 


THE ESCAPE. 


93 


exhausted itself, and proposed to take a rest, but Mc- 
Guffin would no sooner make up his mind that this was 
the case when he would hear it muttering and growling 
in the distance. 

Then it came rushing and sweeping along toward 
him, gathering both sound and strength as it approach- 
ed, and finally dashed against the Phenomenal with all 
its force, as if it would throw him from his wagon or 
deter him from his purpose. Then on past him it would 
go, plowing and scouring away over the fields with a 
deafening roar as if it were calling back to the other 
waves of wind to follow. 

“ Damme, this is rough, or I don’t know,” the Phe- 
nomenal would occasionally mutter to himself. 

The destination of his visit that night was Hampton, 
and his mission to see if he could learn anything of Pen. 
Then, he had a few small boys, of whom Lin Brinkerhoff 
was the acknowledged chief, to pilfer and steal such 
things as they could carry off, for which he would pay 
them money, not more in any case, however, than half 
what the goods were actually worth. These boys had 
their head-quarters in the old, tumble-down, decaying 
building which has heretofore been described. 

If Pen was at Hampton, he proposed to have his fif- 
teen dollars back from Zurilda Goodsil, peaceably if 
possible, but if fair means didn’t bring it, he would com- 
mence an action against the spinster for its recovery. 
If, on the other hand, nothing was known of the boy, he 
would for the time being let the matter rest, and hope 
old Hinchey had him in safe keeping ; for, if the lad 
went to Hampton with him on the night he disappeared, 
he certainly saw several things, and knew entirely too 
much to be let run. 

Just after midnight he drew rein at the out-skirts of 
the village, and after carefully tying his jaded horses, 
proceeded on foot. 

A couple of hours later he returned having learned 
all that can be learned about Pen, which is nothing. 

“ I will have to wait,” he muttered. “ until Hinchey 
comes again.” Then, turning to a slight figure by his 
side, he says : 


94 


TOBS’ NIECE AND NEPHEW. 


“Take good care of the money I paid you, boy.” 

“Never fear, sir, I’ll do that,” is the quick reply, 
“and if I hear anything of Fen I will write you.” 

“ That’s right, my boy,” responds McGuffin. “ It would 
do my eyes good, and make his water, if I could find 
the runaway scape-grace.” Alas, he little guessed where 
lus next meeting with Pen Pembrooke would be. 

Presently his steeds start up, and silently move away, 
and he is gone into the deepening darkness, the howl- 
ing wind, and pelting rain. 

There are many shadows falling here and there over 
the earth, and as the slight figure turns to go a shadow 
seems to swallow him up in its gloom. 


CHAPTER X. 


IN WHICH TOBS LEARNS OF HIS NIECE AND NEPHEW. 

C McGUFFIN, Esq., drove on through the dark- 
ness of the stormy night, until his horses 
• seemed ready to fall down with fatigue and ex- 
haustion. 

The roads were so drenched with water that they 
were almost impassable because of the deep mud. 

At last they stopped altogether, as if they demanded 
a compromise of some kind from their inhuman master 
before they would go a step further. 

“Get up there,” shouted McGuffin, “you lazy ras- 
cals, go on.” 

But the lazy rascals never moved a step, and only 
groaned a remonstrance to their master’s brutal treat- 
ment. 

“Hey! what’s the matter? Give out ?” said he. “I 
guess they are, by thunder! The next house I come to 
I will put up till morning.” 

Whether the tired animals understood their master’s 
promise, or whether they were fearful of the whip, or 


. . : ... ' - \ ' is, V0> 


TOBS’ NIECE AND NEPHEW'. 9 £ 

found it less comfortable standing still than moving on, 
or whether it was for some other cause, certain it is that 
they started forward again with renewed energy. 

Presently the dim light of the little hotel where Pen 
had first met Lillie Blaine and her mother became dis- 
cernible through the lowering darkness. 

McGuffin drew rein at the stables, and after much 
kicking and knocking, roused the hostler from a sound 
sleep, who soon made his appearance and put away the 
fagged and jaded horses, while their master lost no time 
in waking up mine host and ordering a bed. 

The following morning was clear and bright, and the 
sun came out so warm and smiling that no one could 
have believed that it was directly or indirectly to blame 
for such a storm as the night before. 

About the hour on the previous evening when 
Mr. McGuffin had started from home on his lonely 
journey, the Hampton-bound stage drew rein at the 
Mills, and a rather stout built man, with a full beard and 
a pleasant countenance, alighted, with a carpet sack or 
satchel in his hand, and bent his way to the village inn, 
where he engaged supper and lodging. 

As we have seen, it was a wild and stormy night that 
followed. 

The next morning the stranger was up with the sun, 
and soon after breakfast walked down to the stables, en- 
gaging a horse to ride out in the country a little way. 

After mounting, he inquired the best road to a Mr. 
McGuffin’s. 

The hostler pointed out the direction, and gave him a 
minute description of all the roads and by-roads that 
turned off to the right and left of the one road that 
would lead him straight to the Mr. McGuffin farm. 

The stranger thanked him for the exhaustive infor- 
mation, and started out into the country, knowing far 
less about the road he was to travel than he did about the 
by-roads that led off from it. 

He was familiar with country life, however, and hence 
he had no fears but that he would easily find the place. 

His horse was splashing along the muddy road about 
half a mile from the Mills, when coming up to the top of 


98 


TOBS NIECE AND NEPHEW. 


a hill he met a horseman and saluted him, as he drew 
rein, with a “ Good morning, sir,” which was responded 1 
to by the approaching horseman in like manner, who | 
also brought his steed to a halt. 

“ Can you tell me,” asked the stranger, “ where a Mr. < 
McGuffin lives ?” 

“Hi guess Hi can, you know,” replied the person 
addressed, who was none other than Tobs. “ Hi live hat 
Mr. McGuffin’s myself, but he his not hat ’ome, you know, 
t'his morning.” 

“Well, I did not know that,” replied the stranger. 

“ But perhaps,” he continued, “ you can give me the in- 
formation I want. I came to see a lad, who, I understand, 
is working for Mr. McGuffin, by the name of Penfield 
Pernbrooke.” 

“Hi know hall there is to tell,” replied Tobs, “the 
boy his gone.” 

“ Oh, he has gone, has he,” said the stranger. “ Where 
did he go ? ” 

“That, sir,” said Tobs, “his a question that’s not 
heasy to hanswer. He went away not very long ago, 
han ’as not been ’eard hof (I mean seen), since. 

“I suppose,” continued Tobs, “you hare acquainted 
with the lad ?” 

“ No,” replied the stranger, “I never saw him in my 
life, but my wife and daughter met him when he was on 
his way to Mr. McGuffin’s to work, and took quite an 
interest in the lad. In fact,” continued the stranger, “ I 
was well acquainted with his father many years ago, and 
also am well acquainted with the lad’s grandfather, who 
is still alive, and who, I know, would be only too happy 
to find this boy, Penfield Pernbrooke.” 

“ Hit’s a sort of a kindness, you know, that you want 
to do for the boy, his hit ?” interrogatively replied Tobs. ^ 

“Yes, sir, that’s it, exactly,” said the stranger. 

“ I believe,” said Tobs, “ that your name is Baines. ” 

“Yes, sir ; that’s my name. But may I inquire how 
you knew it ?” 

“ Why, the lad ’ad a Bible, you know,” replied Tobs, 

“ that was given him by Lillie Baines, han he talked a 


TOBS ? NIECE AND NEPHEW. 


97 


good deal about your wife’s han daughter’s kindness to 
’itn, sir.” 

“ May I inquire what your name is ?” asked Mr. 
Baine. 

“ George Tobias, hat your service, sir,” replied 
Tobs. 

“ Tobias — Tobias,” repeated Mr. Baine, “ I once knew 
a gentleman by that name, but he has been dead a great 
many years.” 

“Well, now Hi want to know,” said Tobs. “Hi ’ad 
a brother who came to America over thirty years hago ; 
’e was several years holder than Hi, and Hi ’eard ’e was 
dead when Hi came back from the Heast Hindies, where 
Hi spent several years hof my life. Also ’eard that ’is 
wife and only child were dead.” 

“ What was your brother’s name ?” inquired Mr. 
Baine, considerably interested. 

“’Enry, sir; ’Enry Tobias.” 

“And you,” said Mr. Baine, “are Henry Tobias’s 
brother?” 

“ Hi certainly ham, sir,” responded Tobs. 

“ Mr. George Tobias,” said Mr. Baine, “give me your 
hand until I congratulate you on the good news which 
I have for you.” 

The two shook hands warmly. Mr. Baine was all of 
a flurry, and Tobs was all eagerness to hear. 

They headed their horses toward the Mills, and as 
they rode slowly along Mr. Baine spoke as follows : 

“ Many years ago, when I was a young unmarried 
man, an Englishman and his wife came to the little New 
England village where I lived. His name was Henry 
Tobias. At that time they had one child, a baby boy, 
who was born on the sea as they came over. 

“They had considerable money and fora time seemed 
to prosper. After several years went by they had a 
daughter born to them, whom they named Cinderilla, 
but at once abridged the name to ’Rilla ” 

“ My mother’s name,” interrupted Tobs, as he brushed 
a tear from his bearded cheek. 

“ The boy’s name,” continued Mr. Baine, “ was Rich- 
ard.” 


98 


TOBS’ NIECE AND NEPHEW. 


“ My father’s name,” again interrupted Tobs ; and : 
again his sleeve was brought up to his face. 

“ Well,” Mr. Baine went on, “ soon after this your 
brother lost all his property in some unwise speculation, : 
and the old adage that trouble and adversity never come | 
single-handed seemed especially true in his case. Before F 
the little girl, ’Rilla, was two years old, your brother’s j 
wife sickened and died, and soon after your brother J 
died also, and the children found a home with good, | 
kind-hearted Mr. Penfield Pembrooke, the grandfather 
of this lad I am looking for. Your niece, Mr. Tobias, 1 
is now' a fine, intelligent woman of about three and . 
twenty, and still lives with old Grandfather Pern- - 
brooke. 

“ I might go farther explain to you why this little lad 
Pembrooke is a wanderer, as it were, without a home 
— at least he don’t know that he has one.” 

“ Yes, he does,” said Tobs. “ He told me that he ’ad |j 
people Heast, han’e knew hof ’em, but they didn’t know F 
hof ’im.” 

“ I wonder,” said Mr. Baine, half to himself, “how he 
could have found it out.” Then turning to Tobs he con- 
tinued : “ Well, prior to your brother’s death, I married 
my wife, a Miss Clara Macley, who had a twin sister by 
the name of Bertha Macley, who was courted and finally , 
married by -Leroy Pembrooke, this lad’s father. This 
marriage was much against old Mr. Macley’s wishes, and 
a few months later a terrible murder and robbery of the - 
most aggravating character was committed, and old Mr. ; 
Macley was the victim. 

“ Circumstantial evidence was very strong against 
Leroy Pembrooke ; in fact, had it come to trial, I am 
sure he would have been convicted, but he established 
his own guilt by mysteriously disappearing. Nothing 
was ever heard of him from that day until my wife and 
daughter by accident met his child in the stage coach, k 
and from him we learned that his father had recently ;- 
died. 

“ Shortly after the murder l carried out the plans that 
for several years I had been contemplating, and came 
West, settling in Illinois on the farm where I now live, 


TOBS’ NIECE AND NEPHEW. 


99 


less than a hundred miles west of Chicago, and am glad to 
say that in worldly affairs 1 have been very prosperous.” 

When he had concluded he took his handkerchief 
from his pocket and wiped the perspiration from his 
brow, and they rode along for a time in silence. Nor 
was another word spoken until after the stables were 
reached, and the horses stabled away, and they had 
gained the seclusion of Mr. Baine’s room at the inn. 

Then Tobs inquired about his nephew, Richard 
Tobias. “You ’ave told me, sir, about my niece,” said 
Tobs, “ but you ’ave n't told me hof my nephew, you 
know.” 

“ Well, that Mr. Tobias,” replied Mr. Baine, “ is the 
unpleasant part of it. Your nephew, Richard Tobias, 
was a very intelligent and promising young man, and at 
twenty was occupying a responsible position in a large 
wholesale house in New York City ; but he got to keep- 
ing bad company, all brought about, I have been told, 
through his love of strong drink. He was frequently 
entrusted with collections that amounted to large sums 
of money. On a fatal evening, when he had no small 
sum of his employer’s money with him, he met some 
disreputable characters in a saloon, and got to drinking, 
was drugged and robbed of every penny. 

“When lie awoke next morning, and found what had 
happened, he went to his employers, and in great humil- 
iation told them the facts, and promised to remain and 
pay it back though it took years of toil ; but they were 
of an aristocratic class ofrmen, wholly destitute of any 
spirit of forgiveness, and they not only turned him away 
1 but followed him up, wherever he tried for work, and 
j gave him such a character that all avenues were closed 
against him. Then he made his greatest mistake. He 
ought to have returned to Grandfather Pembrooke, who 
is one of the most forgiving men in the world, but he 
was too proud to do that ; he still had hopes, no doubt, 
that he would at last succeed, and perhaps he would 
have succeeded had not his appetite for liquor been so 
strong. 

“In time he got down so low that he had nothing 


100 


TOBS’ NIECE AND NEPHEW. 


and when a few dimes did fall into his hands he spent 
them at the bar. 

“At last he was arrested, with a number of other 
associates, for breaking the peace in some drunken brawl, 
and as he had no money with which to pay his fine, he 
had to work it out on the streets. 

“From then on all trace of him is lost. It was re- 
ported that he was associated with a gang of thieves 
along the Ohio river, but that was several years ago. 
Whether he is dead or alive now, I cannot tell ; much 
that I have told you is but rumors that have reached my 
ears from time to time when visiting at my old New 
England home. 

“ I ship stock to New York twice a year, and always 
go up to my old home and visit a few days, and usually 
make my head-quarters at such times with Grandfather 
Pembrooke. Now, Mr. Tobias,” said Mr. Baine, “I 
would like to hear all you can tell me about the lad, 
Penfield Pembrooke.” 

Tobs told him all that he knew about the boy and the 
letter that he had received, and also told him of his 
own loss and what his suspicions were concerning Mr. 
McGuffin. 

“ McGuffin,” said Mr. B ine, “ why, that is the name 
of a family who lived in ue same neighborhood I did 
in the East. 

“They were hard cases too. One of them, Henry 
McGuffin, served a term in the penitentiary. He had a 
brother by the name of Charles, but nothing ever came 
out against him that I remember of, but, from what 
you tell me, I am inclined to think that he is up to some- 
thing.” 

Tobs said that he would like very much to see his 
niece, ’Rilla Tobias, but he was unable to go where she 
lived, for the want of funds, and he felt that he ought 
to remain and watch McGuffin, and try to recover his 
loss. 

“ I was just a going to suggest,” said Mr. Baine, 
“ that you accompany me home to Dairyfield farm. 
Not only myself but my family would make you most 


TOBS’ NIECE AND NEPHEW. 


101 


welcome, and further, I could give you employment and 
pay you good wages. 

a We are expecting,” he continued, “ our niece, Miss 
Kitty Pembrooke, to visit us this winter, and I am well 
satisfied Miss ’Rilla will accompany her, for they have 
never been separated from childhood up, played together 
and attended school together. Kitty is Leroy Pem- 
brooke’s child by his first wife, who died when she was 
still a mere child.” 

But Tobs felt that for the present it was best for him 
to stay and look after his interests and McGuffin. It 
was finally arranged that Mr. Baine was to write Tobs 
after he went East, the first of the November following, 
and, if the young ladies concluded to accompany him 
home, Tobs was to come at once to Dairyfield Farm and 
visit them. 

The arrangements being finally agreed upon, the two 
men shook hands warmly, Tobs agreeing to let Mr. 
Baine know at once if anything further was heard of 
Pen. 

Tobs mounted his horse and rode slowly and thought- 
fully home, censuring himself severely for ever having 
let Pen follow McGuffin. 

The days and weeks wore by without anything fur- 
ther happening or any won' coming from Pen. 

At last, in the early days of November, there came a 
letter to the Mills for Tobs, and when he received it from 
old Tim, that gentleman officiously said : 

“ Sure, an’ Tobs, you see, I was afther being as good 
as me word. I gave it over into no one’s hands but your 
own, sure.” 

Tobs was not long in breaking the seal and reading 
the letter, which ran as follows : 

“ November 3d, 18 — , 

“ Mr. George Tobias: 

“Dear Sir and Friend, — I arrived at Grandfather 
Pembrooke’s last evening, and found them quite well. 
The young ladies had made all necessary preparations to 
accompany me home. You have no idea what a scene of 
happiness followed, when I told ’Rilla of you, and 


102 


TOBS’ NIECE AND NEPHEW. 


Grandfather Pembrooke, and Kitty of Little Pen, 
Leroy s son. Grandfather actually wept for joy, and I 
thought the young ladies would smother me with kisses 
for the glad news I brought them. ’Rilla says : ‘ To 
think I have an uncle George ;’ while Kittie exclaims: 
‘To think that I have a little brother Penfield, your 
namesake, grandfather,’ she says to the old man. 

“The only chilly wind that blows in the household is 
the suspense felt about little Pen, but I tell them that 
you are on the lookout, and I have no doubt will have 
news for us when you come to Dairyfield Farm. 

“We will start for my home to-morrow, and all want 
you to come at once. Hoping to meet you soon at my 
home, 1 am, 

“ Most truly and sincerely yours, 

“ Stephen Baine. 

“ P. S. I found a splendid market for my stock, and 
feel jubilant. S. B.” 

When Tobs finished reading his letter he found him- 
self weeping like a. child. To think that there was any- 
body in the wide world who would be glad to see him 
was so at variance with the past dozen years of his life 
that the news seemed too good to be true. 

“ Faith, now,” said Tim, who happening back in his 
store found Tobs in tears, “faith now an’ what could 
have been afther happening to ye, Tobs ? I hope no one 
is dead, sure,” 

Tobs told Tim Mannahan the contents of the letter 
in a confidential tone, and old Tim rejoiced with him at 
his great good fortune. The old Irishman insisted that 
he should furnish Tobs with money to defray all ex- 
penses in travel and a new suit of clothes, which Tim 
declared should be made by a Chicago tailor, and further, | 
that he had been wanting to go to Chicago himself, and 
he would go along with him that far and see to it him- 
self that he was properly and fashionably provided for. J 

For which kindness Tobs thanked him warmly, and 
promised to repay the money as soon as it possible. 

The following morning Tobs took his leave of Mr. 
McGuffin, much against that individual’s wish ; but when 


THROWS' IN JAIL. 


103 


Tobs said he was going to see about getting evidence to 
establish his claim, and that he would not be gone long, 
the Phenomenal gave in, though he protested that Tobs 
ought to confide more in him than he did. 

Tobs remarked that he disliked to bother a gentleman 
like Mr. McGuffin with his own comparatively small 
affairs, but he would tell him soon, when a convenient 
opportunity came, all about his expectations, and per- 
haps Mr. McGuffin, who knew so much about business, 
could help him in the affair. 

This put the Phenomenal McGuffin in a pleasant 
frame of mind, contemplating his own importance, and 
he finally bid Tobs good-by with a condescending air 
that was quite noticeable. 

When he got to the Mills, the stage-coach had just 
drawn up, and soon after, he and old Tim were seated 
within the old shack ly vehicle, bound for the nearest 
railroad station, which was several miles away, where 
they proposed to change the lumbering stage for con- 
veniences found in a railway car, in which they would 
j continue their travels Chicago-ward. 


CHAPTER XI. 


FOURTEEN THOUSAND DOLLARS MISSING. THE INIMITABLE 
THROWN IN JAIL. 

W E will leave Tobs, or George Tobias, as we 
should now call him, traveling on toward 
Dairyfield Farm, and turn to Uncle Stephen 
Baine and the young ladies who are accompanying him 
home. 

In a preceding chapter we caught sight of them for 
a short time at the Hampton depot, where, after waiting 
a tedious hour, they finally got aboard the Chicago train 
and continued their journey. Before going far, Mr. 
Baine discovered that his carpet-satchel was gone which 
contained his money. 


104 


THROWN IN JAIL. 


The pay for several car-loads of stock was in the 
satchel, and where could he have lost it? He mentally 
formed his plans before saying a word to the young 
ladies about his loss, and when he did explain to them 
they remembered that he had the satchel when they 
got off the St. Louis Express, and when they went into 
the Hampton depot, but after that nothing could be re- 
membered of it. 

The only thing left for Stephen Baine to do was to 
unload himself of his many bundles, call the conductor 
and give the young ladies over into his charge, get off 
at the next station and hunt up the lost satchel. The 
programme was carried out, and soon after a message 
flashed over the wires to Hampton. 

When the Inimitable and Lin could find nothing of 
the satchel, a message was sent back as follows : 

“ Hampton, Nov. 7th, 18 — . 

“ To Stephen Baine : 

“ No satchel can be found. 

“ Edward Willets, 

“ Operator.” 

Mr. Baine was one of those individuals who are full 
of veneration and noted for kindness of heart and many 
charitable acts, but when fully aroused he had great 
determination and persistence of character, and now he 
began to feel that it was time for him to act decidedly 
and with great promptness. He therefore caused the 
following message to be sent at once : 

“ To Edward Willets, Operator: 

“ Satchel was left in Hampton depot and unless you 
produce it there will be trouble. 

“ Stephen Baine.” 

It so happened that the station where Mr. Baine was 
sending these messages from was a county seat, and he 
forthwith hunted up the sheriff and awoke him from a 
sound nap, requesting that official to accompany him to 
Hampton. 


THROWN IN JAIL. 


105 


A hand-car was then provided by the gentlemanly 
station agent, and soon the sheriff and Mr. Baine, in com- 
pany with a couple of section-men, were spinning along 
at hand-car speed toward Hampton. 

When the Inimitable received Mr. Baine’s last mes- 
sage he was almost beside himself with fright. 

“ I tell you, my boy,” said he to Lin, “ there was no 
satchel left here or it would be here now. I stopped out 
in the waiting room before going up town, after the 
Chicago train pulled out, and if there had been any satchel 
out there I certainly would have seen it.” 

“No doubt, Mr. Willets,” said Lin, “ you would have 
noticed it the first thing, if there had been a satchel there. 
I distinctly remember that you stopped a few moments 
in the waiting room when you last went uptown.” 

“ I stopped a moment by the stove to fasten my over- 
coat.” Then suddenly assuming a thoughtful look, he 
studied a moment, and said : “ I have it, I have the solu- 
tion, my charming boy. It is now plain to me, and the 
gathering mist will soon be cleared away.” 

“ How,” asked Lin calmly. 

“ Why, this old chap, Baine, left his precious treasure 
on the St. Louis train. All I have to do, sir, is to con- 
sult my time table to ascertain the probable whereabouts 
of that flying meteor, ordinarily called the St. Louis Ex- 
press, and send a message to the station ahead of it 
addressed to the conductor, explaining the circum- 
stances, and soon the satchel will be taken charge of 
by some trusty brother railroad official of mine, and 
all will be well ; the goose dangling from the top- 
most pinnacle of a satisfactory explanation ; a per- 
fect understanding and an unalloyed happiness. 

“But first I will write a note to your sister, Miss 
Edith, who is certainly a charming dancer, and explain 
the cause of my absence.” 

He then hastily wrote a note, and folding it up, con- 
tinued : “ Now, my boy, if you will be kind enough to 
go up to the ball-room and give this to your sister, I 
will be yours to death, Edward Willets, Esq.” 

Soon after the Inimitable was calling away for a 
station in advance of the St. Louis Express train, and 
Lin was hurrying along the deserted streets of the vil- 


106 


THROWN IN JAIL. 


lage toward the ball-room. The dancing hall, was in the 
second story of a large wooden building. It had a stage- 
like rostrum at one end, with a large drop curtain in 
front, on which was painted numerous faded advertise- 
ments in a great many different shades of color, and 
which undoubtedly would have compared favorably for 
diversity with “Joseph’s Coat; ” or a reader of Dickens 
might have thought that one of the famous “ Bill Stick- 
ers ” had been doing a thriving business. When the 
drop curtain was down, and there was nothing on the 
boards, the room was frequently cleared of its seating 
furniture, answering the purpose of a ball-room, and was 
so occupied on this particular night. 

When Lin came opposite the hall he paused in' the 
shadow of an old building, and listened to the stirring 
strains of sweet music, and watched the whirling forms 
pass the lighted windows in a mazy waltz. 

Within all was life and merriment. Sparkling, 
laughing eyes that spoke volumes in a single look, 
witticisms, rich compliments to fair ladies, easy, graceful 
gestures, with light and airy step — all were there — and 
thus the hours had worn on from early evening, blending 
all into a glow of happiness. 

Our little friend could not help stopping for a mo- 
ment to feast his ears on the strains of harmonious 
music, and his eyes on scenes of merriment, but it was 
only for a few moments, and then he hurried across the 
street and up the steps. Soon after, having found his 
sister and delivered Willets’ note, he returned to the 
open street, crossed over, and again watched the dan- 
cers. Presently he turned and looked westward. 

The old moon, which was in the last quarter, was al- 
most to the horizon ; ever and anonablack cloud would 
pass hurriedly over its face, wholly hiding it from view, 
and then suddenly it would look out at him, as if it 
would say, “ Such is life, my boy ; none so happy, no 
life so sunny that occasionally a shadow will not flit 
across it. But if the children of men, like me, are far 
above the smirching clouds of trouble, then will they 
again shine forth with renewed luster after the blacken- 
ed clouds have passed away.” 


THROWN IN JAIL. 


107 


Of what is the boy thinking, as he stands there so 
still and motionless ? Does the old moon tell him that 
earth and sea, air and sky, are the handiwork of a Cre- 
ator ? Does it tell him that all created things, both 
animate and inanimate, in the deep sea or on the broad 
land, are witnesses to prove that there is a Creator ? Or 
does the boy still cling to his dead father’s belief, which 
was a skeptical philosophy wholly unable to discover any 
soul in the human mechanism ? 

Lin had read and re-read the books his father had 
left treating on this subject, and he firmly disbelieved 
the theory of a separate spiritual existence, regarding it 
as a mythological tradition which modern science had 
wholly routed from its stronghold. 

The night was clear and still. Suddenly the rumble 
of cars fell on his ears, and he hastened back to the depot. 

The Inimitable had changed his sanguine look of 
hopefulness to a crestfallen look of dejection. 

“ Lin, my aspiring boy,” he said, “ there was no 
satchel on the St. Louis. Meteor, and I am in a distress- 
ingly unrelishable situation. I feel as if my bark was 
headed with lightning speed toward a whirlpool of start- 
ling width and depth.” 

“ Hadn't you better run away, Mr. Willets ?” asked 
Lin. 

“ No, my sympathizing companion, no,” said Willets ; 
“ that would establish my guilt.” 

“ Your what ?” asked Lin, quickly. 

“It would look, sir,” replied the Inimitable, “as 
though I was guilty of a crime, one which my poetic 
soul spurns with scorn.” 

Just then the tramp of feet was heard, and a moment 
later the door opened, and in stepped three stalwart- 
looking men. 

It seemed that Mr. Baine and crew came to the out- 
skirts of the village, and there he and the sheriff got off 
and sent the other two men back with the car. They 
then proceeded to the deputy sheriff’s house, who was a 
resident of Hampton, and together they made their way 
to the depot. 

When they came walking in, the Inimitable’s self- 


108 


THROWN IN JAIL. 


possession almost wholly deserted him, and his agitation 
was very noticeable. His burning face and confused 
speech caused Mr. Baine’s attendants to look at each 
other and smilingly nod, as much as to say, “ We have 
found our bird.” 

Mr. Baine was now unincumbered with bundles, and 
even the pockets in his great coat had been emptied. 
His slouched hat was pushed back, and his very look 
was that of a man who proposed to win. 

“ Is this Mr. Edward Willets, night operator ?” lie 
asked, in a clear, pleasant, yet firm voice. 

“ Yes, sir, that is my name,” replied Willets ; “and 
may I inquire,” he continued, “whom I have the honor, 
sir, of addressing ?” 

“ My name is Baine, Stephen Baine,” was the reply ; 
“and now, Mr. Willets, if you will be kind enough to 
hand over that satchel I left here in this waiting-room 
less than two hours ago, I will not only be much obliged, 
but will suffer you to go unpunished.” 

“ Mr. Baine,” said Willets, “ it is with unfeigned sor- 
row, sir, on my part, to meet you under such unpoetic 
circumstances, especially as I am obliged to inform you, 
my dear sir, that I know nothing of your satchel, though 
I am free to confess that it would afford me inexpress- 
ible happiness to be the humble instrument through 
which you might regain possession of that which is 
lost.” 

“ Do I understand you to say,” inquired Mr. Baine, 
“ that you positively have seen nothing of the satchel 
since I boarded the Chicago train ?” 

** That, sir,” said Willets, “ is the purport of such in- 
formation' as I was desirous, in my humble way, of com- 
municating to your intelligent mind.” 

“Never mind, Mr. Willets,” said Mr. Baine, “never 
mind so much useless lingo. Your answers ‘yes * and 
4 no ’ would be far more acceptable. The facts are these,” 
he continued, “ I have lost a satchel in which were four- 
teen thousand dollars, and I have come back to this sta- 
tion because I am certain this is the place my satchel and 
I parted company. I feel that I was hasty and unwise 
in wording my first message. Had I not been somewhat 


THROWN IN JAIL. 


109 


excited I would not have named its contents. I am no 
lawyer, neither do I know much of any Jaw more than 
that which a just respect and honorable dealing toward 
all men teaches me. I wish now to ask you a few ques- 
tions, which will be to the point, and in turn I wane 
you to answer in few words and to the point ; after that 
I will leave the whole affair with these two gentlemen, 
who are sheriff and deputy sheriff of this county.” 

“Now, sir,” continued Mr. Baine, “was there any 
other person or persons with you in this building when 
I left it at one o’clock this morning ?” 

Willets was by this time well nigh frightened to 
death, and in reply to the question, he stammered out : 
“No — Yes — I don’t know there was a boy here, I be- 
lieve, sir.” 

“ Where is he and who is he ?” inquired Mr. Baine. 

Lin stepped forward at this, and in a voice that was 
clear and musical, perfectly free from any tremor of 
agitation, said : “I am the boy, and my name is Lin 
Brinkerhoff.” 

The three men looked at the lad, and the deputy sher- 
iff whispered to his principal, “ That boy is straight — 
nothing crooked about him.” 

“ Was there any one else here ?” inquired Mr. Baine. 

“ No, sir,” responded both Willets and Lin in uni- 
son. 

“ Very well,” said Mr. Baine. Then turning to the 
officers, he continued : “ Gentlemen, I command you to 
place both Edward Willets and the boy, Lin Brinkerhoff, 
under arrest. I will employ an attorney, and we will 
have a preliminary hearing as soon as possible this 
morning. It is already half-past three o’clack.” 

The deputy sheriff was a near neighbor of Mrs. Brin- 
kerhoff and he protested aside with Mr. Baine that the 
boy ought not to be arrested. But all to no purpose, 
for Mr. Baine had made up his mind and that was the 
end of it. 

The following morning, when the fact of their arrest 
became known, there was one? of the greatest commo- 
tions ever witnessed in Hampton. Because Willets was 


110 


THROWN IN JAIL. 


arrested, was sufficient evidence for many of them to 
believe him guilty. 

The whole town, however was indignant at Lin’s ar- 
rest. Some of the hot-blooded went so far as to say that 
the man who had him arrested ought to be strung up, 
and that they would be one of a dozen who would do it. 
But this talk and feeling gradually gave way to reason 
and better judgment, and the preliminary trial com- 
menced. When it was finished it resulted in Lin Brin- 
kerhoff being dismissed and Edward Willets held to 
await the action of the grand jury, charged with the crime 
of stealing a certain satchel, containing fourteen thousand 
dollars. 

The findings of the preliminary examination were 
highly satisfactory to every one, generally speaking. 
True, there were some who could not make up their 
minds to believe that Mr. Willets would be guilty of 
such an act, while the majority would knowingly turn 
to their neighbors at their elbows and say : “ What did I 
tell you?” and “ I told you so;” or ask sneeringly, 
“ What did I tell you about Willets when he first came 
to Hampton ?” 

At noon that day another operator came on to take 
Willets place, with whom Lin continued his studies as 
if nothing had happened. 

While it is true that the only evidence against Wil- 
lets was circumstantial, yet public sentiment was so de- 
cidedly against him that an impartial jury could not have 
been empaneled from the residents of Hampton. 

He wrote dozens of letters, overflowing with adjec- 
tives, imploring even those with whom he had but the 
slightest acquaintance to intercede for his immediate re- 
lease from prison, but all to no purpose. 

Every letter he wrote, and every pound of flesh he 
lost in his ceaseless worry, added strength to the current 
belief that he was guilty. Very pious, rustling^silk- 
religious people, who pandered to the power of wealth, 
said that they certainly believed Mr. Baine, the wealthy 
farmer and stock shipper, had been the victim of a shame- 
ful robbery, and that Edward Willets was, beyond a 


THROWN IN JAIL. 


Ill 


doubt the thief, and that his prompt arrest was but a just 
retribution for his wickedness. 

They also said that in the whole affair they could see 
the workings of a Divine Providence, and they sincerely 
hoped that it' would serve as a striking example to 
others who were disposed to be sinful. 

There was another class whose religion prompted 
them to pray earnestly that the guilty might be punish- 
ed, but that no one who was innocent should be made to 
unjustly suffer. They held their peace, and said to those 
about them, “Judge not, lest ye be judged.” There were 
still those of another class, who cared but little about 
religion in any form, but who were very susceptible to 
the power of money, who reasoned that if Willets had 
stolen the satchel, it was undoubtedly hidden somewhere 
in the vicinity of the depot, or buried in some of the 
vacant cellars underneath unoccupied buildings ; and 
while this class were far less busy talking than some of 
their highly pretentious, religious neighbors, they were 
by no means inactive, looking and searching in every 
imaginable place, and some places that were not reason- 
ably imaginable, for the stolen wealth ; turning over 
planks, taking up the floors of deserted buildings, dig- 
ging over the bottoms of damp cellars, and making them- 
selves generally useful in trying to find the stock ship- 
per’s wealth. 

It is not, however, at all certain that Mr. Baine would 
have been any the wiser, or any the richer, if some of 
these restless prospectors should have found the treasure 
for which they were looking. 

The Inimitable had sent several notes to Zurilda 
Goodsil requesting her to come and see him. Finally, 
one morning after he had been confined about a week in 
the town jail, the spinster set out with many misgivings 
to call on her ex-boarder. 

When she was admitted into his presence, and saw 
how worn and haggard he looked, she could not refrain 
from bringing the corner of her apron to her face and 
shedding tears. 

“ Oh, Mr. Willets,” she said, “ how could you do such 
a wicked thing ?” 


112 


THROWN IN JAIL. 


“ Miss Goodsil,” replied Willets, in a woe-begone 
tone, that compared very favorably with his looks, “ I 
am not guilty of the heinous and heretofore unparalleled 
crime among our brotherhood, of which I have been 
accused. 

“ Oh, Mr. Willets,” the spinster sighed, “ it looks as 
if you were guilty.” 

“ My dear madam,” said Willets, “ is it possible — is 
it, I say, possible — that you, too, believe me guilty, even 
after I have personally communicated to you the intelli- 
gence that I am as innocent of this crime as a prattling 
babe ?” 

“ Oh, it looks that way,” said the spinster between her 
sobs. 

“Then, indeed,” said Willets, “am I an unhappy 
man. My bark, Miss Goodsil, in which my hopes were 
freighted, was on the very brink of an engulfing whirl- 
pool when you came, and now it has plunged over into 
the abyss of foaming, fretful waters, and this instant is 
a thousand fathoms below the dead level of a calm sea. 
Don’t speak to me, Miss Goodsil, don’t, don’t, but with- 
draw from my sight and leave me alone, a crushed and 
withering fuchsia.” 

The spinster was very much affected when she with- 
drew, and said to the jailer that she really believed Mr. 
Willets was going crazy. 

The keeper made her no reply, and she hastened away, 
stopping, however, to gossip at several houses before 
reaching home. When she at last arrived at her cottage, 
she was tired out, she said, with fatigue and excitement, 
but her mind was made up to one thing, and that was 
Edward Willets was indeed most guilty, leastways in her 
opinion, and she hoped he would suffer the full penalty 
of the law. 


DAIRYFIELD FARM. 


118 


CHAPTER XII. 

DAIRYFIELD FARM, 

M R. STEPHEN BAINE left Hampton as soon as 
Edward Willets was committed to prison, and 
went straight to Chicago. He at once hunted 
up an old schoolmate, one Horatio Westover, a lawyer 
of considerable note in that metropolis. 

Mr. Westover was seated at his desk in his well- 
furnished office, before a grate where a fire was burning 
to keep off the chill of the November weather. 

He was a man of perhaps five and forty, although 
the iron-gray hair and beard would have said five and 
fifty. 

As Mr. Bainecame in, he rose and greeted him warm- 
ly. The greeting was soon over, and the usual inquiries 
made and answered concerning the health of each, 
and their respective families. Mr. Baine then laid 
his case before the lawyer, giving him a full and 
careful account of the whole business, from first to 
last. 

“You have given me,” said Mr. Westover, when his 
client ceased talking, “ a very careful account, but you 
have not said who you really think is the guilty party.” 

“That,” said Mr. Baine, “is a very hard question, one 
that I have been trying to decide in my own mind ever 
since I left Hampton. I have an impression that this 
boy, Lin Brinkerhoff, notwithstanding he was dismissed, 
knows something of the matter. I am free to say, how- 
ever, that my belief is mainly based on impressions.” 

“From the evidence that was introduced,” said Mr. 
Westover, “ I doubt very much if the grand jury find an 
indictment against this man, Edward Willets. All the 
evidence seems to be circumstantial, and that very super- 
ficial.” 

“ I guess,” said Mr. Baine, “that is about the truth, 
but you would be astonished, Westover — you would, 
indeed — to see what a strong hold that boy has on the 


DAIEYFIELD FARM. 


/ 

people of Hampton. Why, some of them even talked 
of treating me to mob violence because I had him ar- 
rested.” 

“ What you want, Mr. Baine,” said the lawyer, “ is 
to recover your money. If we can succeed in that we 
will have done bravely, and we can then punish the 
guilty and remove all suspicions from the innocent.” 

“Who do you think is the thief, Mr. Westover,” in- 
quired Mr. Baine, “ from all the facts that I have given 
you ?” 

“ That is a very delicate question,” replied the attor- 
ney, “ but something tells me that Edward Willets is the 
man.” 

“Well,” said Mr. Baine, “I do not want to wrong 
the innocent — far from it ; I would much rather lose 
the money than be the cause of an innocent man or boy 
suffering.” 

The lawyer seemingly paid no attention to this last 
remark, but sat looking deep into the burning grate, be- 
fore which they were seated, in a thoughtful attitude, for 
several minutes, finally his countenance brightened, and, 
turning to Mr. Ba4ne, he said: “How would this do? 
Suppose you withdraw this suit against Willets, the 
operator, and I will see the officials of the railroad com- 
pany, and we will have him put to work again at Hamp- 
ton, and trust the case to the skill of a detective. In this 
way we will probably recover the money, and, in doing 
so, obtain the necessary proof to convict the guilty 
party.” 

“That suits me,” said Mr. Baine, with great emphasis, 
and, to make his earnestness still more emphatic, he 
brought his hand down so hard on the lawyer’s shoulder 
that he winced, as if from pain. 

• “That suits me,” repeated Mr. Baine, “that idea of a 
detective is splendid. You are a cool-headed lawyer, 
Westover, you are indeed.” 

There was enough of a compliment in this last re- 
mark to partially offset the smarting blow, and he re- 
marked that he was glad that the suggestion pleased Mr. 
Baine. 

While he was saying this he arose and quietly moved 


DAIRYFIELD FARM. 


115 


his chair a few feet further away, fearing, no doubt, that 
his old friend and client might renew his emphatic form 
of speech. 

After an hour’s conversation, it was agreed that the 
lawyer’s suggestion should be the policy on which they 
would work. 

Then Mr. Baine took his leave. About noon the fol- 
lowing day, he took passage in an outgoing train and 
wheeled away toward Dairyfield Farm, thinking, no 
doubt, far more about the stock that he would ship the 
following June than he did about the money he had lost. 
Perhaps his belief that the loss was only a temporary 
matter in part accounted for his apparent happy state of 
mind, or perhaps it was in anticipation of returning 
home where so many were waiting eagerly for his 
coming. 

The afternoon was wearing away when he reached 
the station where he was to leave the cars. 

“ Hello, father, you’re here at last?” were the cheery 
words that met his ears as he stepped from the railway 
coach. 

“ Here, at last, Harry my boy !” was Mr. Baine’s 
prompt reply, as he grasped the outstretched hand of a 
fine-looking young man of not more than twenty. 

“ I have met every train, father, since cousin Kittie 
and her friend arrived,” said the young man. 

‘‘Well, did you find anybody else,” inquired Mr. 
Baine, “ beside the young ladies, who were bound for 
the farm ?” 

“ Yes, sir,” answered the young man. “ The next day 
after their arrival Mr. George Tobias came, and I tell 
you they are having splendid times.” 

“ It made me feel as if I would enjoy being an uncle 
myself, if I could have such a niece as ’Rilla Tobias.” 
This last remark was said in a half-laughing way, but 
nevertheless Mr. Baine thought he detected a ring of 
earnestness in his son’s remark. 

“ She is a fine young lady, my boy,” replied Mr 
Baine. 

While this conversation was going on they had seat- 
ed themselves in a comfortable carriage, and were driv- 


116 


DAIRYFIELD FARM. 


in g rapidly homeward. Although it was now that: season 
of the year when sleighs ought to be used, no snow had 
as yet put in an appearance. 

Harry Baine was a fine-looking young man, almost 
six feet in height, straight as an arrow and well propor- 
tioned. Hair black as the raven’s wing clustered about 
his broad full forehead, underneath which was a pair of 
brown eyes, clear and pleasant, and finely chiseled feat- 
ures that bore an impress of open frankness. The nose 
was of a Grecian mould, and betokened refinement, while 
the square, full chin gave evidence of strength of char- 
acter. 

Mr. Baine and his wife, like all parents, were very 
proud of their two children, and had taken great pains 
to imbue into them principles of truthfulness and honor, 
and they had been successful. Any one not acquainted 
with the family, however, would never have suspected 
that blue-eyed and golden-tressed Lillie Baine was a sis- 
ter of Harry’s, so different were their general features. 

The sun was just sinking behind the western horizon, 
when Harry drew rein in front of the gateway that led 
up to the farm-house. It was a two-story structure, with 
a square top. Its color was white, and the window 
shutters were painted green. A broad lawn sloped 
down to the road in front, dotted over with trees through 
which were winding walks, and all inclosed with a picket 
fence, neatly painted white. 

Many of- the trees that adorned the yard were ever- 
greens, and even on a November day presented a com- 
fortable look that was very suggestive of its Summer 
time beauty. 

That night, seated around the cheerful glow of an 
open grate, Mr. Baine related all the circumstances of 
his loss ; told who were suspected and what steps had 
been taken ; and that, after consulting with his attorney, 
he had made up his mind to release the operator Willets. 
He was very careful not to say anything about having 
made arrangements to have suspected parties shadowed 
by a detective. 

When he was speaking of Edward Willets, ’ Rilla 
looked hard at the burning coal on the grate, and Kittie 


DAIRYFIELD FARM. 


117 


only dared to steal a single glance at her face, which she 
saw was clouded with sorrow ; but when Mr. Baine 
spoke of his release, ’Rilla’s face seemed to brighten. 
When he had finished speaking Kittie said : 

-“-Uncle Stephen, you do not think that this Mr. Wil- 
letts is guilty, do you ?” 

“ I do not suspect anyone in particular, Kittie,” said 
Mr. Baine. 

Tobs listened to the narration with marked attention, 
and when ’Rilla turned to him, and said, “ Uncle George, 
who do you think took the satchel ?” he was ready to 
answer : 

“Hi think,” said he, “that hif Hi was at ’ome and 
knew whether C. McGuffin, Esq., was away that night or 
not, Hi could hanswer better, you know.” 

It was evident that there was no crime in the whole 
list of felony that Tobs thought too great for his old 
employer to engage in. “ Hi don’t think,” he continued, 
“ that this man, Willets, stole the money.” 

“ What makes you think he is innocent?” inquired 
Mr. Baine. 

“ Well, you know,” replied Tobs, “ he was deucedly 
kind ’arted to little Pen. Gave ’im twenty dollars the 
day he left ’Ampton.” 

“ Gave him twenty dollars ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Baine. 

“ That’s what I said, you know,” replied Tobs. 

“ Well, now, wasn’t that kind of him ?” said Mrs. 
Baine. 

“Surely, Stephen, Mr. Willets has some good qual- 
ities. He has a kind and generous heart, I am sure.” 

“My mind is made up,” said Kittie, and her eyes 
flashed admiration, while her cheeks bathed themselves 
in a flush of excitement at the mention of Pen’s name. 

“I feel certain,” she continued, “that no one who 
was so considerate toward my little brother could pos- 
sibly be guilty of such a crime as stealing. No, until he 
is proven guilty, I will believe him innocent.” 

“Nobly spoken, my handsome Kittie,” said Mr. 
Baine, “ but you have forgotten that I told you I had 
withdrawn my charges against this man Willets ; and he 


118 


DAIRYFIELD FARM. 


is not only to be set at liberty, but he is to be reinstated 
in his former position.” 

All this time ’Rilla said nothing, but her burning 
cheeks plainly told that she was thinking earnestly, and, 
at the same time, listening to every word that was 
spoken. 

Harry drew his chair near her, and tried to engage in 
some light conversation, but ’Rilla proved very uncom- 
panionable. Presently he left her to her own thoughts, 
and turned to Kittie, who was always ready to do her 
part in entertaining her handsome Cousin Harry. 

After an hour’s pleasant conversation, Mr. Baine ex- 
cused himself and withdrew to the library, where he 
found a bright fire blazing in the grate. He wished to 
make some memoranda of expenses, and also write a 
few business letters. 

An hour after there came a gentle knock at the door, 
which was slightly ajar, and the handsome face of Kittie 
Pembrooke looked in. 

“Can I come in, Uncle Stephen?” she hesitatingly 
inquired. 

“ Certainly, Kittie, come in,” said Mr. Baine, in his 
good natured way. “ I suppose you want to talk with me 
about little Pen ?” 

“ Yes, I wanted to talk with you about him, and 
then there was another subject I wished to speak to you 
of.” 

At Uncle Stephen’s request she seated herself in one 
of the easy chairs, and turning her handsome face to him, 
said: “ Uncle Stephen, I hope you will not think I am 
presuming or interfering with any of your plans, when 
I tell you that I know Mr. Willets never took your 
money.” 

“ How do you know that?” quickly inquired Mr. 
Baine. 

‘‘Perhaps,” she replied, “I express myself in too 
strong terms when I say that I know. I should have 
said that I am certain in my own mind that Mr. Willets 
is an honorable man.” 

“ What makes you think so, Kittie ?” asked Mr. 
Baine. 


DAIRYFIELD FARM. 


119 


“ That, Uncle, is just what I am a going to tell 
you. When ’ Rilla and I first went away to the Sem- 
inary, we met a young lady student there by the name 
of Emily Willets. She was a couple of years younger 
than myself, and I am candid and sincere when I tell 
you she was the handsomest person I ever saw in my 
life. She was a blonde in everything but her eyes, — 
they were lustrous black ; but what added most to her 
loveliness was her gentle ways, her kind words, her 
evenness of temper, her reticence, and her queenly de- 
portment. There was not a young lady in the Seminary 
but knew she was, by far, the handsomest student there : 
yet, strange as it may seem, she was a favorite. No one 
envied her beauty, or, if they did, they did not blame her 
for her lovely face. She had a smile and a kind word 
for every one, and then she was such a bright scholar. 

“Well, she told us of her brother Edward and a mar- 
ried sister, her only relatives. The former of whom she 
said paid her expenses at the Seminary. 

“ Her sister had been married several years, and liv- 
ed in Cinapolis, and her husband, Mr. Dorris, was an 
employe in a large foundry at that place. Her brother 
Edward was a telegraph operator. I also learned that 
prior to her parents’ death, which happened when she 
was a little child, they lived in New York City, and 
for years enjoyed all the comforts that wealth could pur- 
chase. 

“Her father was a very proud man, and her mother, 
I should judge, from what Emily told me, was a very 
delicate woman who could not endure calamity. Mr. 
Willets, her father, speculated heavily on Wall Street, 
and had done so for years. In fact, it was there he had 
made his wealth. But there came a day when disaster 
and utter ruin overtook him, and he found himself pen- 
niless. The blow was too much for his proud spirit, 
and it broke him down in death, and his wife quickly 
followed. I only speak of her parents to explain how 
she was left an orphan. 

“ Her brother Edward came to visit her often, and 
was far from resembling his handsome sister in face or 
physique. He was tall and angular, had a fiery head of 


120 


DAXRYFIELD FARM. 


red hair, and was anything but handsome ; but he had a 
very fluent way of expressing himself, and then he was 
Emily’s brother. For my own part I never was even 
introduced to him, but ’Rilla met him, and in time a 
great attachment sprang up between them. She came 
to me one day and confided her secret, and wanted my 
advice, as she always does about everything, although 1 
am several years her junior. My advice to her was to 
dismiss such thoughts as marrying, from her mind and 
wait until our school life was ended. She folJowed my 
advice and gave Edward Wiilets her promise to always 
be his friend, and when her school days were over she 
would try and gain her guardian’s consent ; then she 
would receive him at Grandfather Pembrooke^s, where 
they would renew their friendship, that, until then, must 
cease. 

“ Emily Wiilets was one year in advance of ’Rilla 
and myself in her studies. In the early days of June, 
before she graduated, there was a cowardly murder com- 
mitted near the station where her brother was operator. 
There was a great deal said about it at the time, and the 
papers were full of the tragedy. 

“ It happened in this wise.” Here Kittie paused in 
her narration, and looking up from the glowing grate, 
# said : “ I hope, Uncle, I am not tiring you ?” 

“No, no,” replied Mr. Baine, “go on; I am very 
much interested.” 

“Thank you, Uncle Stephen; I was fearful that I 
was growing tedious. Well, as I was saying,” she con- 
tinued, “ it happened, as near as I remember, in this 
wise : 

“On a certain evening, Mr. Bethel, a merchant of 
the village where Edward Wiilets was operator, came 
into the station and said he was going to the city to 
purchase goods. Mr. Wiilets and the gentleman were 
we 1 ! acquainted, and chatted away for some time, and 
among other things Mr. Bethel remarked that he paid 
caoii for his goods, and in that way bought his mer- 
chandise at better prices than his competitors did. Just 
as lie made this remark, they heard a shuffling noise, 
and, looking up, they saw they had company. As soon 


DAIRYFIELD FARM. 


121 


as the stranger was discovered, he came up to the ticket 
office window and bought a ticket for New York, the 
same place to which the merchant had purchased one 
only a moment before. The description given of this 
strange man I will never forget. The papers said that he 
looked more like a tramp than a man who was able to 
purchase a first class ticket. 

“ He was slightly stooped, and was perhaps fifty years 
old. His once black hair was rather long and frowsy, 
and streaked with gray. His face had a dirty look about 
it, and was covered over with a short bristly beard. His 
eyes were small and restless. He was all the time try- 
ing to smile, more from habit than because he felt as 
people usually feel when they look pleasant. Well, when 
the train came in, this stranger and the merchant got in 
the same car, which, aside from themselves^ was entirely 
vacant. 

“ The conductor afterwards said he thought this 
strange man looked more like a felon than any person 
that ever rode with him. The conductor passed through 
the car, took up the tickets, and left them alone. They 
drew up at the next station a moment, and then pushed on. 
When he next came into the car he found it was empty, 
and thought it rather strange, as both passengers had 
tickets for the city. He went on through the car to the 
back platform, and there law the dead body of the mer- 
chant, Mr. Bethel. 

“He was removed from the cars at the next station, 
and a message sent back to Mr. Willets, who at once 
aroused Mr. Bethel’s family and friends, and on the next 
train they went after the murdered merchant’s body. 

“ His family said he had a great amount of money 
with him, but not a cent could be found on his clothing. 
Over a week after this, Mr. Willets took a walk into the 
country, and came home by way of the railroad, and as 
he walked along he spied a wallet laying on the outf de 
of the rails, in the edge of some weeds. 

“ He picked it up, and upon examination it proved to 
be the property of the murdered merchant, and con- 
tained over five thousand dollars. Now, vyhat do you 
think Mr. Willets did w T ith the purse ?” 


122 


DAIRYFIELD FARM. 


“Well, what did he do with it?” asked Mr. Baine, 
almost impatiently. 

“ He gave it at once to the merchant’s family. The 
theory of the tragedy was that the strange man had mur- 
dered him for his money, but the merchant, in the strug- 
gle on the platform of the car, had dropped his wallet, 
possibly by design, but more likely by accident, and the 
murderer got only human blood instead of money for 
his cowardly deed. 

“ The strange man disappeared, no one knew where, 
and has never been heard of since.” 

“ That is a strange and very interesting story,” said 
Mr. Baine, “ and I will compliment you, Kittie, on being 
a fine story-teller.” 

“Thank you, uncle, for the compliment; but my 
story,” she continued, “ will amount to nothing unless it 
has a moral sufficiently apparent for you to plainly 
see.” 

Mr. Baine remained silent, and Kittie went on. 

“You see, uncle, ’Rilla thinks a great deal of this, 
man Edward Willets, and had she knowm that place 
where we waited for the Chicago train so long was 
Hampton, she would have had quite a visit with him. 
Knowing as she does the story that I have just narrated 
to you, she believes Mr. Willets absolutely honest, and 
his integrity above reproach. 

“ Now whatever is said, uncle, don’t cloud his name 
with suspicion, for it will make ’Rilla very miserable 
indeed. Of course, I am very sorry that you lost your 
money, but I am satisfied that, sooner or later you will 
recover it, and when you do, all suspicion will be re- 
moved from Edward Willets, and the mist that now 
hangs over him in your thoughts will clear away, and I 
hope the broad, bright rays of the sun that shine in on your 
after knowledge will warm into a lasting friendship be- 
tween you and he.” 


BURT LESTER. 


123 


CHAPTER XIII. 

IN WHICH BURT LESTER, THE DETECTIVE, COMMENCES OPE- 
RATIONS. 

AWYER Westover, only a few days previous to 



his interview with Mr. Baine, had accidentally 


J formed the acquaintance of a young man by the 
name of Herbert Lester, who, though young and pos- 
sessed of quite a feminine look, had won a reputation on 
both sides of the Atlantic, as being one of the shrewdest 
and most successful detectives that was ever entrusted 
with a case. 

He had been pretty well used up a few months prior 
to the time of which we write, and had, as he termed it, 
been “ laid up for repairs,” but now he was about well 
again, and concluded to do business on his own ac- 
count for the present, and not connect himself with 
any agency. 

The afternoon of the day following the arrangements 
between Mr. Baine and the lawyer was drawing to a 
close, and the eastward shadows were lengthening in 
the shade of evening. The noisy venders on the street 
below had ceased their crying clamor, and the loud clat- 
ter of many vehicles had lessened and lessened, until now 
only an occasional rumble could be heard on the stony 
streets, and then at first so very indistinct that it was 
hardly noticeable, but it would gradually increase in its 
noisy approach, growing louder and louder, until it 
whirled by, and would then in like proportion grow less 
noisy as it wheeled away and finally dwindled into si- 
lence, like the fading of an echo. 

Not a soul was in the lawyer’s office but the lawyer 
himself, who was seated in front of the grate, where 
slumbered half-burned coals. 

His right elbow rested on his desk, and with his right 
hand he supported his chin. The thumb of his left hand 
was carelessly inserted in the left armhole of his vest. 
His right foot was as motionless as though it was stone, 


124 


BURT LESTER. 


while with his left foot he would give an occasional tap 
on the grated hearth, against which it rested, as if he 
>vas keeping the good points of his reverie separate from 
the worthless ones. At last he gave vent to his thoughts, 
and said : “ That is the true theory, and I will show my 
friend Baine how much he can count on his impressions. 
Why, Herbert Lester will run his man down and recover 
the stolen wealth in such a short time that my old client 
will be surprised. I am a lucky chap — lucky to have 
such an acquaintance as Stephen Baine, and lucky to 
know such a detective as Lester.’’ 

Here he rose to his feet, and taking out a gold-cased 
time-keeper, said, “ Almost time he was here. I do won- 
der if ” 

Just here he was interrupted by a knock at the door, 
and the lawyer called out, “Walk in,” with the same 
breath that he commenced a sentence that was never fin- 
ished, and in walked Herbert Lester. 

Their greeting was formal and business-like, and as 
the detective seated himself in the offered chair, he drew 
a letter from his pocket, and as he did so, said : “ Your 
letter, Mr. Westover, was received, and I believe this is 
the hour you requested my presence.” 

“Yes, sir,” replied Mr. Westover, “I wished to see 
you on professional business, and ” 

Just at this juncture the legal gentleman was attacked 
with a violent fit of sneezing, which had not only a 
shaking-up effect, but also served as a reminder that the 
fire was burning low ; in fact, was. fast dying into life- 
less coals. As soon as the attorney sufficiently recov- 
ered himself, he added some fresh kindling and coal, and 
soon a bright blaze w'as sparkling on the hearth. The 
lawyer had several sobering-off sneezes, used his hand- 
kerchief rather freely, and finally succeeded in get- 
ting back to a normal condition where he could talk 
business. 

Let us first take a glance at the detective, before we 
listen to their conversation. He is rather young, not 
more than twenty-five ; a smooth-shaven face that is 
almost too feminine for a man to wear ; steel blue eyes 
that possess a certain quaint expression that would cause 


BURT LESTER. 


125 


you to think he was disposed to listen attentively, but 
believe very little of what he heard ; his hair is a dark- 
brown color and cut short ; in stature he is of medium 
height and not very stout in his build ; he wears a 
handsome gray business suit, that becomes him admir- 
ably. 

“ As I was observing,” said the lawyer, “ I wished to 
see you professionally. 1 have a case which I wish 
to entrust to your skill, if you are not engaged on any 
other.” 

“I am at your service, Mr. Westover,” said the de- 
tective. 

Then followed a very careful account of the robbery, 
all the facts and impressions which the robbed man, Mr. 
Baine, had, relative to the matter, and how he, Mr. West- 
over, proposed to see the officials and have Mr. Willets 
put back to work. 

Mr. Herbert Lester was for the most part agreeable 
to the lawyer’s plans, and said he would start at once 
for Hampton and get the general drift of the feeling of 
the people, and the general lay of things, before Willets 
was released. 

Accordingly, the detective started that night, and the 
next day at noon, when the train stopped at Hampton, 
an old man, rather plainly dressed, stepped oft the train. 
His gray beard and hair compared very favorably with 
his stooped shoulders and the old-fashioned cane with 
which he walked. He bent his steps to the village 
hotel, engaged one of the best rooms in the house, and 
sent for his large Saratoga. That evening the old man 
started out with a book under his arm, and commenced 
soliciting orders for all kinds of fruit and ornamental 
trees and shrubbery. The book he carried was filled 
with highly-colored pictures of every kind of fruit im- 
aginable. 

The old man canvassed very slowly, and when he got 
to a house he remained a long time and listened very 
attentively to all the gossip that was going on. The 
! main theme of the villagers’ talk was about a Mr. 
Willets who stole thousands and thousands of dollars 
from a farmer and cattle shipper. 


126 


BURT LESTER. 


A few days later an official of the railroad came to 
Hampton and astonished the people generally by saying 
that he did not believe Mr. Willets was guilty, and 
that he would go and have a talk with him. If he was 
of the same opinion after having the interview, he cer- 
tainly should try to have him released. 

Most of the villagers believed that Willets would 
“ give himself away,” as they termed it, before he talked 
five minutes with the man. 

When the official was admitted, he introduced himself 
to thd hope-deserted Willets, and asked him how he was 
feeling. 

“ Feeling?” replied Willets, and then without giving 
the official time to reply, he continued, “ my highly re- 
spected superior, I have no feeling. It, sir, was waybilled 
with my hopes, and my hopes have sunk to rise no more. 
My race is very nearly run. There was a time, though 
the memory of it has almost deserted me, when I was a 
promising house plant, as it were, but to-day I am a 
thistle on a dung-hill despised and shunned.” 

“ I am truly sorry,” said the official, “to find you so 
low spirited.” 

“ Don’t talk to me,” said the Inimitable, “of spirit. 
To explain myself to your intelligent mind, let us for a 
brief moment suppose the spirit of mortal man to be an 
egg-shell substance, and a pile-driver hammer of three 
ton weight should descend with lightning velocity on 
said heretofore described egg-shell substance. Now 
where, oh, where, in the devil, would the spirit cf 
mortal man be? You must acknowledge, my esteemed 
superior, that the spirit would at least be slightly im- 
paired.” 

“ Mr. Willets,” said the official, “ I came to see you 
with a view of interceding for your liberty, and if I am 
successful, to ask you to accept your old position as 
night operator at this place.” 

“Is it possible, sir,” said Willets, “that you come to 
see me as a friend ? I say, sir, is it possible ?” 

“ I will leave you,” said the official, “ to judge what 
my motives toward you are. I shall endeavor to obtain 
your release and reinstate you in your old position.” 


BURT LESTER. 


127 


The Inimitable rose from his reclining posture, ex- 
tended his big-jointed bony hand to the official, and the 
two shook hands. 

“My highly esteemed and never to be forgotten 
friend,” said Willets, “ you have taken me so much by 
surprise in this act of unprecedented kindness, that I am 
wholly at a loss for such words as will adequately ex- 
press to your superior mind the thoughts that are surging 
through my heretofore troubled soul, and each clamoring 
for an outlet. Suffice it, sir, to say, that you shall have 
your reward in heaven. I have a young friend, my dear 
official, who is quite a hand at praying, and if I should 
live to see him, I will insist, with all the eloquence and 
enthusiasm that my inferior ability can command, that 
he prays, and prays hard, for you, and, moreover ” 

“Mr. Willets,” interrupted the official, “ if you will 
excuse me now, I will be going. I know you are not 
feeling well, and cannot express yourself as fluently as 
you would like, but you can thank me some other 
time.” 

“ Just so, my charming official. You think it would 
be more in keeping with the eternal fitness of things 
to adjourn the subject, sine die , for the immediate pres- 
ent ?” 

“ That is my idea exactly,” answered the official. 
“ Good afternoon to you.” 

“For the present, farewell,” said Willets, just as the 
jail door closed. 

As soon as the official emerged from the building, he 
walked straight to the hotel. After supper that night, 
if any one could have seen through the close-fitting 
blinds of the old man’s room, he would have seen the 
official and Herbert Lester, the detective, now unmask- 
ed of his old man’s disguise, holding a whispered con- 
sultation together which lasted fully an hour, Then the 
official withdrew, and soon after Burt, as he was usually 
called, was smoking lazily away at his cigar and think- 
ing over his afternoon’s work. 

The next morning the old man was out early, solicit- 
ing orders for fruit trees and shrubbery. 

He was walking along slowly with staff in hand, 


128 


BURT LESTER. 


when he suddenly came face to face with a bright-look- 
ing lad. The old man stopped, opened his book, com- 
menced showing the pictures and soliciting an order. 

“ They are very nice,” said the boy, “but I am not 
able to purchase.” 

“ Well, don’t say you will not purchase, but think it 
over a few days,” said the old man as he closed his 
book. 

“I will think it over,” said the boy, “ but I know we 
will not purchase.” 

“ What is your name, my lad ?” 

“ Hamlin Brinkerhoff,” he replied. “ Everybody calls 
me Lin.” 

“ Why, you are the lad that I heard the people about 
here say was at the depot that night when the operator 
stole a lot of money.” 

“Yes, sir,” Lin replied; “I am learning teleg- 
raphy.” 

“ I suppose,” said the old man, “ that there is no 
doubt that the operator is the thief ? ” 

“ Well,” said Lin, “ it looks that way, though I would 
not want to give any opinion, for he was very kind to 
me. He was teaching me telegraphy.” 

“That’s right, that’s right!” exclaimed the old man, 
“ never go back on a friend when he is in trouble. Stick 
to him as long as there is any hope of clearing him.” 

“ May I ask your name ? ” inquired Lin. 

“ Yes, my boy. Uncle Jimmie, you may call me ; my 
name is James Drake, I am a poor old man selling fruit 
trees and all kinds of shrubbery.” 

“I will wish you success,” said Lin, “and bid you 
good-morning, for I sleep in the day time, as I am up 
ail night. Good-morning to you.” 

“ Good-day, good-day,” said the old man, as he 
hobbled on along the streets. 

He soon turned toward the hotel, for as yet he had 
not breakfasted. 

Soon after the noon train arrived from Chicago, the 
doors of the jail were thrown open, and Edward Willets 
walked out a free man. That evening at seven o’clock 
he went on duty as night operator. During the fore- 


RITRT LESLER. 


129 


part of the evening a great many Hamptonians dropped 
in to congratulate Willets, and assure him they never did 
believe he was guilty. 

The Inimitable took heart at their cheery words, and 
assured them that he had been of the same opinion him- 
self all along, and now he actually felt convinced 
of it. 

“ You are the first person, ” said a little weazen-look- 
ing old man, “ that was ever locked up in that jail build- 
ing for theft.” 

“ The first, you say ? ” inquired the Inimitable. 

“Yes, sir,” responded the old man, “that’s what I 
said, and I assure you that I meant nothing when I said 
it,— that is, no reflection against yourself,” and while he 
was talking he edged his way near the door, as if he 
was fearful that Willets would do him bodily harm for 
making the observation. 

“Gentlemen,” said Willets, rising to his feet, “you 
hear what this man says, that I am the first to occupy 
the Hampton jail on the charge of felony. Now, gentle- 
men, this being true, I can lay claim to the title of 
‘ pioneer.’ Yes, gentleman, in my way, l am a pioneer, 
and have passed through the ordeal that would have 
caused the glory of an Indian scalper to pale, and pale, 
into insignificance. Do I enjoy the life of a pioneer? 
Well, no, it cannot be said that I yearn for it. The 
grasping of intelligence from the magnetic wires is a far 
more enjoyable pursuit.” 

“Mr, Willets,” said the little old man, as he adjusted 
his glasses, “ I have never had the honor of an introduc- 
tion to you, but still I know you — that is, heard of you 
since I came to Hampton, which was only a few days 
since, but everybody seems to have time to give you a 
kick, although they didn’t have time to give me an order 
fora few fruit trees, though I tell them that no better 
stock was ever offered in this city or any other place. 
Everybody seemed to know Edward Willets.” 

“Oh,” said Willets, “I have some celebrity — in 
fact, I think it is quite common with pioneers gener- 
ally.” 

“No doubt, no doubt,” replied the little old man, 
6 * 


130 


BURT LESTER. 


“ but what I wanted to say to you was this : when I heard 
them talking, and talking about you stealing a lot of 
money, I said to them, ‘ hold on, don’t judge too quickly, 

“ lesr ye yourselves be judged possibly Mr. Willets is 
innocent.’ Sure enough, you were innocent, and it 
proves that the Bible is true, where it says, ‘ An old man 
for his wisdom.’ ” 

“My clear sir,” said the Inimitable, “what is your 
name ?” 

“Uncle Jimmie,” said the old man, “Uncle Jimmie 
Drake.” 

“Sir,” said Willets, “you are an old man, and have 
seen many sights with those eyes that are now growing 
dim ; many times have you seen the winters come with 
their chilling blasts and drifting snow ; many times have 
you seen the spring time come on, and witnessed the old 
earth wake up from its frozen stupor and bud into living 
life ; but never before, Mr. Drake, have you seen a more 
striking example where the just and innocent have been 
so wrongly accused, as in my case. The poetry, Mr. 
Drake, of my usually glowing soul has sustained a shock 
from which I fear it will never recover.” 

“There is my hand, Mr. Willets,” said the little old 
man, “and with it my best wishes.” 

“ Thank you, sir,” said the Inimitable Willets. “ Your 
words sink deep into my heart, an organ within me that 
has been badly crushed in this unpleasant and unjust ac- 
cusation ; but I am happy to say, sir, that it is fast re- 
covering, and I have great hopes that soon it will again 
be thumping its normal throb.” 

When Willets finished speaking, the little old man 
bade him good-night and started for the hotel, where 
Willets promised to meet him the next morning soon | 
after seven o’clock, and breakfast with him. 

The others who had called on Willets soon took their' 
leave, and the Inimitable and Lin Brinkerhoff were left 
alone, and were soon busy at work practicing on the 
keys of the instrument. Every hour’s practice placed 
Lin so much nearer the time when he could say, “ I have 
mastered the art of telegraphy.” 

Their practicing was interrupted by a small boy who 


BURT LESTER. 


131 


came rushing in and said, “Here is a letter for Mr. Wil- 
lets.” 

As soon as the letter was placed in Mr. Willets’ 
hands, the small boy took himself away as fast as he 
came. 

The Inimitable seated himself on the top of the back 
of a chair, and with his feet planted in the chair seat, 
looked like a big interrogation point. He hastily broke 
the seal, and perused the contents of the missive two or 
three times before changing his position. Then he 
climbed down from his perch, and said to Lin, “ My 
charming boy, I am in receipt of another prescription 
from Miss Zurilda Goodsil.” 

“ Do you owe her another bill ?” Lin inquired. 

“No, my boy, not that I know of. If I am in her 
debt I am ignorant of the fact, and, moreover, there is 
nothing in this prescription,” said Willets, tapping the 
letter, “that indicates that I am her debtor. Listen, as- 
piring youth, until I read you the missive. 

“ At Home. 

“ Edward Willets, Esq. : 

“ My Dear Sir : — I understand that you have been 
given your liberty and reinstated in your former posi- 
tion. 

“ Permit me to congratulate you. I felt from the first, 
Mr. Willets, I did indeed, that you were innocent of the 
great charge brought against you. I knew that you 
could not possibly be guilty of such a crime, possessed 
as you are of a poetic soul that lifts you far above the 
groveling and mercenary affairs of life. I beg of you to 
come back to your former lodging place, where you 
will be received with the greatest consideration and 
kindness. 

“ I have just learned that my nephew, Pen Pembrooke, 
is not at farmer McGuffin’s, — that the unpoetic child ran 
away from that kind gentleman, ’s home only about a 
month after he went there. I need your consolation, 
Mr. Willets, I do indeed, and something tells me that 
your poetic inclinations are too strong to refuse my 


132 


BURT LESTER. 


request to come and make your home at my house. I 
am, 

“ Sincerely yours, 

“ ZURILDA GOODSIL.” 

“ What do you think of that, my boy ?” continued 
Willets. 

“ I can only think of one part of it,” said Lin, “ and 
that is about Pen’s having run away. I do wonder where 
he could have gone ?” 

“That is a question,” said the Inimitable, “ I have no 
doubt that his aunt has propounded many times. I 
might say that I know where he is. You understand 
me, my youthful friend, I might say that I know, but I 
don’t say anything, only that if I did know, I would see 
every Hamptonian in Hampton sunk a few hundred 
thousand fathoms deep before I would reveal his where- 
abouts. Of course Lin, my charming youth, yourself 
and your family, Pen’s little sister, and possibly a few 
other never-to-be-forgotten-friends, are excepted when I 
speak of the Hamptonians. Now,” Willets went on, “I 
will pen my reply to Miss Zurilda Goodsil’s communi- 
cation.” And seating himself at the table, he worked 
patiently away, writing his reply which occupied a full 
half hour ; but at last it was completed, and turning to 
Lin he said : “ My highly appreciated and aspiring 
youth, lend me your ears, in the language of what’s-his- 
name, until I read my reply : 

“At the Hampton Depot. 

“ Miss Zurilda Goodsil: 

“Your communication has been received and read, 
and I must say that it is very different in its general 
tone from your conversation the last time I saw you, 
which was within the walls of Hampton’s Bastile. 
No, I will not come back to your home to find a shel- 
ter. Never again will I step my foot within your 
dwelling. 

“ ‘ We have met and we have parted,’ ’’tells the story. 
You may have a desire to know where I have taken up 
my abode. If so, please step round to the north-east cor- 


BURT LESTER. 


133 


ner of your dwelling to-morrow morning at just fifteen 
minutes past seven o’clock, and turn your face toward 
the City hotel, and after elevating your chin to an angle 
of about forty-five degrees, snuff the air, and, unless the 
wind is decidedly contrary, you will be able to smell the 
delicious odor arising from a broiling beefsteak that is 
being prepared for the undersigned, the moist- eyed, 
pink-complexioned, sandy-haired man of long and lank 
figure, and usually possessed of a poetic and easy tem- 
per, who subscribes himself, 

“ Respectfully yours, 

u Edward Willets, Esq.” 

“ That is my reply,” said the Inimitable, “ and if she 
isn’t tamed down a few when she gets it, then I don’t 
know.” 

“She talks in her letter,” said Lin, “as if she believed 
you were innocent, but if you could have heard how 
much she had to say while you were locked up you 
would be surprised.” 

“Young man,” said Willets, “I know all that she 
said, and knew before I was released from my tempor- 
ary confinement. The words temporary confinement,” 
continued he, “ are far more euphonious and in better 
taste than ‘ locked up,’ and let me beg of you to never, 
never again say ‘ locked up,’ when speaking of my late 
misfortune, which proved only to be a harmless stroke 
at my untarnished character. Remember, my boy, that 
‘truth crushed to earth will rise again,’ like the cork on 
a fishing line. It may be overleaded, and the cork will 
be submerged, but as soon as the weight be removed, the 
cork will bobble to the top, and no adversity can keep 
it down, but it will rise to occupy the position it was in- 
tended to fill from the beginning of the world. So, also, 
is human life. The moment the weights that do beset us 
are cast aside, we spontaneously rise to that graduated 
scale on the ladder of life which we were born into this 
world to occupy.” 

Thus the Inimitable chatted away as the night wore 
on, wholly unconscious that every word he said was list- 
ened to by other ears than Lin Brinkerhoff’s. 


134 


OLD ACQUAINTANCES. 


Thus week succeeded week and month succeeded 
month, and time was growing riper and riper, and the 
day hastened on when evil should be punished and that 
which was good rewarded. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

OLD ACQUAINTANCES AND NEW FRIENDS. 

W E will now leave Edward Willets working away 
as an operator, to be looked after by Burt, the 
detective, and go in search of our little friend, 
Pen Pembrooke, whom we left traveling on through 
Cinapolis with Richard Tobias, alias Dick Dare. The 
darkness of night was fast closing in, but the lowering 
night only caused the heavens to grow more red as the 
black smoke of day was changed to rolling clouds of 
flame. On, on, it went, puffing and pouring out of the 
many tall chimneys that crowded each other and seemed 
to contend as to their height and which could vomit forth 
the greatest amount of red-hot smoke. Here all the 
manufactories and machine shops of Cinapolis were lo- 
cated. They were owned by rich corporations, and gave 
employment to hundreds of men. Although night was 
closing, yet the ceaseless clank of working machinery 
went on. As Pen and Richard came along, they paused 
to watch the two throngs of people hurrying by in dif- 
ferent directions. 

One throng was composed of the day laborers who, 
having finished their work, with weary looks were now 
returning to their homes, and the other was the night 
force coming on duty. Our two friends were almost 
dazed as they looked on this surging crowd, and felt a 
sense of loneliness stealing over them, much like the 
shipwrecked sailor feels who looks at the surging of 
high capped waves about him, yet thirsts and dies for a 
cooling draught of water. 

“ Richard,” said little Pen, “ where will we get our 
supper ?” 


OLD ACQUAINTANCES. 


135 


“ Ah, Pen, we have a few dimes,” responded his com- 
panion, “ with which to pay for our supper and lodging. 
Let us turn down this by-street and get away from the 
bewildering crowd, and from the terribly deafening sound 
of moving machinery.” 

They walked along, hand in hand, and were glad in 
their hearts that they were carrying out their good and 
noble resolves. 

At last they came into the suburbs where lived the 
workingmen of this busy place. Some of the dwellings 
were rather neat and nicely painted, but most of them 
were poorly built and bore no semblance of paint, save 
the weather coat of time. 

“ Listen, Richard, someone is singing,” said Pen. 

They halted and listened to the sweet strains of music 
that floated out on the chilly night wind. It came from 
rather a neat-looking dwelling just over the way, and 
the full-voiced singer sang with a richness and pathos, 
seldom heard, these words: 

“ I am growing weary, old, burden fearing, lest 
The road is too flinty and the way too long ; 

For the frail staff on which I rest, 

Bends like a reed when bitter winds are strong . ** 

“ Come,” said Richard, “ let us go over and try for 
supper and lodging.” 

Accordingly, a little later they were rapping at the 
door, and were soon admitted into the little parlor, which 
in size reminded Pen of the little tucked-up front room 
in his old home at Hampton. 

The young lady who had been singing was still seated 
in front of an upright piano, playing snatches of old 
songs that always carry the hearers back and back to 
some indefinable past, where all the senses rested in 
happy anticipation. 

Little Pen was expecting all sorts of pleasant sights 
and happiness as soon as old Hinchey’s quarters were 
abandoned, and a feeling of naturalness stole about him, 
wliile with Richard it was more a bewildered feeling 
than aught else. 

The young lady finally ceased her playing and turned 


136 


OLD ACQUAINTANCES. 


partially round on the piano-stool just as the lady 
who had admitted our two friends brought in a lamp, 
which she placed on the center stand, and as she did so, 
said : 

“ Emily, this man and child have asked for supper 
and lodging. Will you assist me to lay the cloth, and 
set them a supper ?” 

“ Certainly, sister, certainly,” she replied. 

“ I hope,” interposed Richard, “ that you will not 
trouble yourselves more than to set us a cold lunch, un- 
less it is a cup of hot tea for my little friend here, who 
has been ill and is not very rugged yet.” 

“Oh, no, oh, no,” said Pen hastily, “I am feeling 
quite strong and well now, and I will drink a cup of 
water with my lunch.” 

For a moment the lady’s eyes seemed chained to the 
boy, and then she good-naturedly replied that “ she 
would be the judge of what she set before strangers,” 
and resting her hand gently on Pen’s head, she smooth- 
ed back his hair, and continued, “ I will see that your 
friend has a cup of warm tea, my boy, as well as your- 
self, and I know full well from your flushed face that 
you are feverish even now, and far from being strong, 
but when you have eaten what I prepare for you and 
have a good night’s sleep I hope you will feel much 
stronger.” With this she and the young lady left the 
room. As they came into the kitchen the young lady, 
whom we have addressed as Emily, said : 

“ Sister, did you ever see a sweeter, yet sadder, face 
than that boy wears ? He is a handsome child, and 
would be more so if the glow of health sparkled in those 
large eyes of his, and if his cheeks were free from that 
feverish flush ; but I think we can help that by morning. 
I hope so at least.” 

“ Are you making the tea, Emily ?” 

“ Yes, sister,” the young lady answered. “ You know 
I am noted as a tea-maker,” and here she laughed out a 
clear and rippling laugh, that had about it that same in- 
nate music which characterized her singing. 

“Very well, Emily,” her companion answered, “I 
will broil some steak and brown some toast, and soon 


OLD ACQUAINTANCES. 


137 


we will have a nice plain supper, yet one that is good 
enough for a king to sit down to, prepared for the little 
boy and his companion. ” 

“ A supper good enough for the gods, as brother Ed- 
ward would say,” laughingly replied Emily. 

“Yes, indeed,” her sister answered. “How I wish 
brother Edward were here to-night.” 

“ I wish I knew the stranger’s name,” said Emily. 

“ Why so ?” asked her sister. 

“Well, 1 will tell you, Lydia,” replied Emily. “You 
remember ’Rilla, my schoolmate, the young lady brother 
Edward was so taken with, and who I do hope will some 
day become our sister ?” 

“ Certainly, I remember ; we have her photograph in 
the album,” replied the sister. 

“ Well,” Emily went on, “ there is something in this 
man’s face that reminds me of ’Rilla. I can’t say that 
he exactly resembles her, or she him, yet there is an ex- 
pression about his face that reminds me of hers.” 

“ You are a great girl, Emily, to always see something 
in every one that reminds you of some one else,” her 
sister humorously replied. 

“I know, sister,” laughingly answered Emily, “that 
you will think I am growing quite ‘ fanaticized ’ on simi- 
larity of faces when I tell you in addition to what I 
have already said, that this little boy strongly resembles 
’Rilla’s companion, Kittie Pembrooke. Now, don't laugh 
at me, but the more I think of it the more I can see Kit- 
tie Pembrooke’s looks about him. I thought when he 
first came in there was a strong resemblance in his face 
to some one I had seen, but could not at first remember 
whom it was.” 

“I wish, Emily,” said her sister, “that you would 
have those two school friends, Kittie Pembrooke and 
’Rilla Tobias, come and visit with us, and then I could 
share the pleasure of their acquaintance. For one to 
hear you talk from day to day, they would think there 
was no one else but Kittie and ’Rilla that attended 
school with you. I know your other schoolmates would 
feel a pang of jealousy if they knew how much greater 


138 


OLD ACQUAINTANCES. 


your attachment for these two young ladies was than for 
the rest of them.” 

“Now, sister,” replied Emily, “you know I am 
greatly attached to all my schoolmates, but brother Ed- 
ward made ’Rilla his favorite, and that is a good reason 
why I should, and as Kittie is ’Rilla’s companion that is f 
a good reason why I should also become greatly at- \ 
tached to her.” 

“ If the tea has steeped, Emily,” said her sister, “ you 
may fill the cups, and I will invite them out to supper.” 

“All right, sister,” replied Emily, and she proceeded 
to pour the tea. As she did so Richard and Pen came 
out and took seats at the table. 

“Mr. Dorris, my husband,” said Lydia, “works at 
night in one of the foundies, but he will return by 
breakfast time.” 

“I wonder,” said Richard, “if there is any demand 
for laborers in the foundry where your husband works?” 

“I think not,” replied Mrs. Dorris, “for only last 
week quite a number of employes were discharged be- 
cause business was dull.” 

“ Don’t you remember, sister,’* said Emily, “ that 
William remarked only yesterday that Mr. James, the 
foreman, was in need of a clerk to do his correspond- 
ence ?” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Dorris ; “ I believe my husband 
did speak of that.” Then turning to Richard she in- 
quired : “ Did you want to get a place ?” 

“ Yes’m ; I was desirous of obtaining work of some 
kind, and I wish my little friend here to attend school.” 

“ Oh, Richard,” said little Pen, “you must let me 
help you work, you must, indeed.” 

“Don’t you like to attend school, my little man?” 
asked Emily. 

“ Oh, yes, indeed,” replied the boy, “but„I must not 
think of going to school and leaving Richard to work 
alone.” 

Richard looked proudly at his little companion, and 
Mrs. Dorris observed that the boy seemed greatly attach- 
ed to him. 

“ Yes, madam,” replied Richard, “ we have been com- 


OLD ACQUAINTANCES. 


139 


panions a long time, and have become greatly attached 
to one another.” 

“ But Pen, my boy,” he continued,, “you must be 
| content to do as I wish. If I can obtain work here, 
we will go no further, and you must commence your 
school studies when I commence work. Every night we 
will be together.” 

“William will know, or can soon find out, if the 
place is still vacant,” said Mrs. Dorris, “and your little 
friend can attend my sister’s school.” 

“ Yes, indeed,” said Emily, enthusiastically ; “and I 
know you would like my school, and I am sure I would 
like you for a pupil.” 

“Thank you,” said Pen, modestly. Then turning to 
Richard he said, with a grateful look, “You are too good 
and kind to me, you are, indeed.” 

“Don’t talk of my kindness to you,” said Richard, 
as they arose from the table, “for I can never repay* 
you for what you have already done for me.” 

Shortly after this Mrs. Dorris came to light them to 
bed. As she took up the lamp she said, “We are more 
fortunate than some of our neighbors, for we have an 
upstairs to our dwelling, though I warrant you are used 
to a better room than I have to give you.” 

As she said this, Pen thought of the shackly, barren 
garret they had just left, and Richard replied that “they 
were not accustomed to more than the absolute neces- 
saries of life, and they had no desire for more.” 

The chamber which Mrs. Dorris showed them was 
comfortable but very plain, and contained two beds. 

The lady bade them good night and returned to the 
rooms below, when our two friends seated themselves. 
As they did so Pen drew forth his little Bible, and read 
a chapter; then they both kneeled down, and the little 
waif offered up a childish prayer to Him who “ doeth all 
things well.” When they arose they sat for awhile in 
silence, and listened to the winter winds as they 
moaned and roared through barren tree-tops in the dis- 
tance. 

At last Richard spoke. “ Pen, did you ever read 
4 The Psalm of Life,’ by Longfellow ?” 


140 


OLD ACQUAINTANCES. 


“I do not remember, Richard,” replied Pen; “ I 
think I had Longfellow’s poems before father and mother 
died, but it seems so long ago that I have forgotten al- 
most everything.” 

‘‘Don’t say that, my boy,” replied Richard; “you 
shall and must go to school, and don’t forget our pledge 
to one another to try and forget that part of our past 
that is so densely clouded with unhappiness, but let us 
live in the present and future, and be true to ourselves 
and every one whom we meet, and then we will be true 
heroes and be following Longfellow’s words, where he 
says : 

“ In the world’s broad field of battle, 

In the bivouac of life, 

Be not like dumb driven cattle, 

Be a hero in the strife.” 

“Oh, Richard, those are grand words, and we will, 
oh, yes, I know we will, prove ourselves heroes in the 
battle of life. We are commencing rightly by placing 
our faith in the hand’s of that Good Shepherd who will 
guide us aright.” 

“ Yes,” responded Richard, “ but ‘ faith without works 
is dead,’ we are told in the chapter you just now read, 
and hence we must not permit ourselves to have only 
faith, but we must work out our salvation by earnest, 
determined efforts.” 

Thus they conversed, on the first night of their pil- 
grimage from a life of evil toward a life of honor and 
honesty. 

They had bade each other good-night, and were fall- 
ing away into a quiet and peaceful slumber, when they 
were awakened by a loud knocking at the door below, 
and a moment later heard joyful words of greeting. 

“ Why did you not let us know that you were com- 
ing ? Oh, Edward, I am so glad to see you.” 

“ Have you heard from ’Rilla lately ?” were a few 
of the many feminine-voiced interrogatories that were 
gleefully hurled at the new-comer, 

Then came a man’s voice in reply, and it said, “ My 
darling sisters, permit me to thank you from the depth 
of my heart for this appreciative welcome. The warmth 


OLD ACQUAINTANCES. 


141 


and pressure of your sisterly hands, the exuberance of 
your sweet kisses, and the gentle shower of tears that 
fall for joy at my coming, remind me so vividly of those 
old happy days at home, that my feelings almost over- 
come me.” 

“ How could we help being glad and overjoyed at 
your coming, dear brother?” said Emily, as she smiled 
through her tears. 

“ Edward would have been surprised and grieved, if 
we had not shed tears at his coming,” said Lydia. “ I 
know he would,” and as she said this she wiped the tears 
away with her apron. 

“Now, Lydia, my noble-hearted sister,” said her 
brother, '“ I was not chastising you for those falling tears. 
Ah, no ; far from it. Every tear that has tremblingly 
fallen from your dark eyelashes has been more precious 
to me than gems and rubies, while as to you, Emily, your 
unequaled and charming beauty is but a reflex, as- it 
were, of the pent-up happiness that I feel at this meeting. 
Excuse me, sisters, but I will have to use my handker- 
chief to wipe my own eyes. 

‘ Doubt when honeyed words are near, 

But never doubt the truth sincere 
That glistens through the falling tear/ 

or something like that would indeed be most appropriate 
at the present time.” 

“ Oh, brother.” said Lydia, “ you are the same gush- 
ing boy that you always were.” 

“ And then his poetry,” laughed Emily. “ I do won- 
der where he picked that up,” and here they all enjoyed 
a hearty laugh. Then they subsided into silence for a 
moment, and presently Lydia, excusing herself, went to 
the cellar and brought up an odd-shaped bottle. When 
glasses were provided, Edward, as if by custom, took up 
the corkscrew and pulled the cork, and as he filled the 
glasses round, he asked : “ How many bottles still re- 
main ?” 

“Only three are left, brother.” 

“Then this,” said Edward, “ is our third re-union 


142 


OLD ACQUAINTANCES 


since our parents died. When they died, our only legacy 
was an even half-dozen bottles of this rare old wine, 
which we by mutual consent dedicated to re-unions. 
This is our third meeting since then, and three bottles 
have been tapped and three still remain.” Then looking 
up at Lydia, he inquired, “ What is your toast at this 
re-union ?” 

“ The same,” she answered, “ that it has always been, 
that we may have many more reunions in the years to 
come.” 

“And now, Emily,” said her brother, “pray what is 
yours ?” 

“ My wish,” said she, “is that you will make ’Rilla 
Tobias my sister, and that she will help us drink the 
next bottle of wine.” 

“Amen!” said Edward, as he rose to his feet. “And 
now, sisters,” said he, “ let us drink to the tears of friend- 
ship and the tears of affection that always flow at our 
reunions, and may such tears crystallize as they 
fall, and be worn as bright gems and rubies on the 
hearts of those we love.” 

While the brother and sisters were thus celebrating 
their reunion, Richard and little Pen lay in their couch, 
unable to sleep for hearing the pleasant discourse 
below. 

When Emily made her wish that Edward would make 
’Rilla Tobias her sister, Richard could wait no longer, 
and hastily rising, he threw on his clothes, and bade Pen 
do likewise. As soun as they were dressed they walked 
down the narrow stairway and knocked at the door, 
which was immediately opened by Mrs. Dorris. 

As soon as Pen saw the brother, he gave Richard as 
great a surprise as he did the two ladies by rushing into 
that gentleman’s arms and crying for joy, and as he did 
so shouted, “ Oh! Mr. Willets, Mr. Wiilets, how glad I 
am that I have found you.” 

To say that Mr. Willets was overcome with surprise 
at seeing little Pen Pembrooke would feebly express it, 
and for once in his life his usually glib tongue clove to 
the roof of his mouth for a moment, and he could only 
stare in speechless amazement. 


OLD ACQUAINTANCES. 


143 


“Which one of you ladies,” inquired Richard, “was 
speaking a few moments ago of ’Rilla Tobias ?” 

“I was,” said Emily. “Do you know her?” 

“ I certainly do,” said Richard. “She is my sister.” 

“ What !” said Emily and the Inimitable, in one 
breath, “ your sister ?” 

“And the boy,” interposed Mrs. Dorris, “who is 
he ?” 

“ Kittie Pembrooke’s half brother,” replied Richard. 

Emily, not knowing what else to do, caught Pen in 
her arms and embraced him affectionately, which Mrs. 
Dorris in turn did also, more through a spirit of 
motherly sympathy than aught else. She had no chil- 
dren now. A little boy had been born to them, but 
while he was yet a prattling, chubby babe he had been 
taken from them, and his little body, cold and inani- 
mate laid away to slumber on and on until the great 
waking day should come. 

While the sisters were thus greeting Pen, Willets 
was warmly shaking Richard’s hand, and then presented 
him to his sisters, who also received him with great cor- 
diality. After this, Willets poured out a glass of wine, 
and, taking it up, said, “ Mr. Richard Tobias, brother of 
the lady whom I hope to one day make my wife, permit 
me sir, permit me ” — and at this handed the sparkling 
wine to Richard, who took it from his hand, and replied 
in a husky voice : “ Mr. Willets and ladies, this is an un- 
expected meeting. Although you are strangers, yet 
have circumstances made us acquaintances, and your 
kind words and greeting warrant me in saying that we 
are already friends. But for the demon strong drink I 
would have been a different man — one that my sister 
would have been proud of, as I am of her. But this,” 
said he, tapping the glass, “ has ever been my weak- 
ness, and has robbed me of my sister’s company ; robbed 
me of good society ; robbed me of peace ; robbed me of 
happiness ; robbed me of the respect of my fellow men ; 
robbed me of money ; robb’ed me of ten years of my life, 
and almost robbed me of all the respect I once had for 
myself, and but for this noble boy, I know not what 
would have become of me. Think it not strange, then, 


144 


OLD ACQUAINTANCES. 


Mr. Willets, if I ask you to excuse me from drinking 
to your health. My first drink was taken in honor of a 
new acquaintance, and now my first refusal is made to 
you, a gentleman with whom I trust I shall long have 
the honor of his friendship.” With this he set the glass 
of wine down on the table, and Willets, in reply, said: 

“ Sir, you do not look like a gentleman addicted to 
strong drink, but you know yourself better than any one 
else can know you. Permit me, sir, to compliment you 
on this your first heroic refusal. In the very act of re- 
fusing, you have proven yourself a strong man. I can 
only add, in conclusion, in the language of that great, 
time-tried and illustrious WhaPs-his-name, ‘ Be thou 
faithful unto the end !’ I might add a postcript to my 
remarks, and say that I know too well what it is to have 
the fire of hope die out of our bosoms, to have faith faint 
by the wayside, and the gulf of bottomless and black 
despair reign supreme within our crushed and withering 
souls.” 

The}" then seated themselves, and Richard declared he 
could not sleep until he heard from them of ’Rilla. For 
an hour they conversed together of Richard’s sister and 
Kittie Pembrooke. Richard promised to tell them his 
story the next day. 

The good nights were then said, and soon after they 
were dozing away into a restful sleep, each feeling that 
the events of the evening had been indeed most satisfac- 
tory. 

Especially did Pen feel jubilant to think he had heard 
of Kittie, and then the strength of will that Richard had 
displayed in refusing to drink wine caused the little fel- 
low to hope with a new hope that all would yet be well 
with Richard. 

The moaning winds had exhausted their strength, and 
rested in a cold, sullen silence. The old moon climbed 
slowly up the eastern sky among the sparkling stars, 
and peeped through the frosty window panes, letting its . 
slanting rays fall on sleeping little Pen. His matted 
hair clustered about his forehead in wavy ringlets, while 
his face was sunny and smiling, as if no wave of grief or 
trouble had ever rippled over it. 


AT DR. PULLINTWIST’S. 


145 


CHAPTER XV. 

AT DR. PULLINTWIST’S DENTAL ROOMS. 

E ARLY the next morning the breakfast bell sound- 
ed at Mr. William Dorris’s, and when Richard 
and Pen came down stairs they found Edward 
Willets and Mr. Dorris conversing pleasantly together, 
the former of whom presented first Richard, and then 
Pen, to his brother-in-law, in his usual flowery manner. 

The Inimitable found an opportunity to say a word 
to Pen in private, and tapping the boy on the shoulder 
with that same big-jointed, long index finger of his, said, 
“ Pen, my charming boy, I am deucedly glad to see you, 
I am, by George.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Willets,” said Pen. 

“Don’t mention it, my youthful companion, don’t 
mention it. By the by, Pen, you are in elegant company.” 
Cinderilla’s own brother, as he made this last remark, 
bent forward and almost whispered it in Pen’s ear, and 

I then drawing back inserted both thumbs in the arm 
holes of his vest, and shutting one eye, as was his custom, 
said, “ Stock went up last night, my charming boy, like 
a thermometer does in a hot house. Wouldn’t sell out 
my stock in Cinderilla Tobias for less than a dollar 
ninety, spot cash. Let me see ; originally I had thirty 
dollars invested at one-ninety, worth fifty-seven dollars.” 

Just here they were called to breakfast, and further 
observations on the part of Edward Willets relative to his 
stocks were for the time being suspended. 

When breakfast was over, Richard and Pen drew 
aside, and after talking confidentially for a while, they 
concluded to only let Edward Willets into the secret of 
Richard’s unhappy past, and to ask his counsel and ad- 
vice. 

It was, no doubt, a great effort on the part of that 
gentleman to remain quiet while the narration was being 
told ; and when old Hinchey was described, Willets 
could not refrain from interrupting long enough to say, 

7 

i 


146 


AT DR. PULLIJNTWIST’S. 


“An exact description, sir, an exact description of the 
heartless, soulless wretch who killed Mr. Bethel on a 
car platform. But go on, go on, sir, don’t let me inter- 
rupt.” 

When Richard finished speaking, Pen said, “ Mr. 
Willets, I saw you once since our ride that morning in 
the stage coach.” 

“ Ah, how was that, sir? I don’t quite understand,” 
said Willets. 

Then Pen narrated the events of the evening when he 
was first captured by old Hinchey, and how they went 
by the depot and stopped to listen to Mr. Willets poetic 
renditions and Fourth of July speech. 

‘ You remember, Richard, don’t you ?” 

“Indeed, I do remember that night,” said Richard, 
“for then it was, at the little Hampton church-yard, 
among the silent graves, that I awakened to the fact that 
I still had feelings of sympathy left within me, and the 
first tears fell from my eyes that had moistened them 
for many along year. Yes, then it was that I awakened 
to a new life, and put my trust in Him who spilled His 
blood for fallen humanity, and you, my boy, were the 
Evangelist that roused up my latent feelings of venera- 
tion. Oh, sir !” said he, turning to Willets, “if you 
could have heard the prayer which Pen offered up to his 
God that night, as he bowed over his mother’s grave, 
you would not think it strange that I promised to forsake 
the evil paths of sin and lead a new life. 

‘ I knelt by graves of mouldering dust, 

And thought of time, of moth and rust.’” 

Richard’s feelings were so wrought up that he could 
not say another word, but bowed his face on his hands 
and wept in silence. 

“ I am glad, oh, so glad,” said little Pen, while his 
eyes glistened with tears, “ to see Richard so sincere 
and earnest. I know, dear Richard, that we will suc- 
ceed, and that the future holds in store for us many 
happy days.” 

Willets was greatly moved, and hastily brushing 
away the gathering mist from his own eyes, said : 


AT DR. PULLINTWIST’S. 


147 


“ Richard, my friend, my companion, rouse yourself 
and fulfill the destiny for which you were created. If, 
for a moment, my weeping friend, you suppose that I, 
Edward Willets, Esq., am a stranger to hope, deserted 
feelings, disabuse your mind of such thoughts instanter 
Excuse my Latin, or French, or whatever it is, and know 
that I, too, have an intimate acquaintance with grief and 
despair. I, sir, have gazed through the lens of heart- 
crushing trouble. 

“ I paid an exorbitant price for the spectacles, and 
they were labeled ‘experience/ My point of observation, 
as it were, was on the rocky, barren banks of muddy, 
murky and turbulent waters on which I launched my 
bark. In my frail vessel, snugly packed away, was my 
earthly hope, my happiness, my ambition, my all. Im- 
agine, then, my feelings on suddenly discovering just in 
advance a whirlpool of such gigantic proportions that it 
is wholly beyond human conception to grasp. I said, 
imagine my feelings, but no, you could not do that ; it 
is impossible.” 

Here the Inimitable applied his handkerclpef to his 
face and wiped off great beads of sweat, and then con- 
tinued in a husky voice; “Yes, my friends, there are 
bitter waters in every path. No matter whether the 
draught is taken from a golden goblet or from a gourd 
in the rough. In conclusion, let me ask you, what are 
all the rushing, howling, high-capped waves of life in 
comparison with the calm, pacific, shoreless ocean of 
eternity ?” 

“Ah (” said Richard, “you propound a question that 
each must answer for himself. For my part, I feel that 
the calm of Eternity can only be reached by determin- 
edly riding aright the waves of life. Our barks must be 
skillfully manned or they will be capsized, and sink 
before the peaceful harbor of the much-hoped-for Etern- 
ity is reached.” 

Then Richard told Willets of his plans. How he 
would like to obtain work, and have Pen commence 
i school at once, and thus they would live until such time 
as they could find out about Pen’s people and Richard’s 
sister. 


148 


AT DR. PULLINTWIST’S. 


Willets promised to help them carry out their plans, 
and then told them of his own trouble, about his arrest 
and final release, and that he did not believe the old 
gentleman Mr. Baine ever lost the money. 

“ Baine ?” said Pen, quickly, “ 1 wonder if he is Lillie 
Baine’s father ?” 

“ I knew a Mr. Stephen Baine when I was a boy,’'’ 
said Richard, “ He resided near your Grandfather’s, 
Pen.” 

“That, sir,” said Willets, “is the gentleman’s name 
— Stephen Baine.” 

“ Lillie’s mother told me,” said Pen, “when this Bible 
was given me, that she knew my father when he was a 
young man.” 

“Don’t you remember, Pen,” said Richard, “when I 
told you your father’s early history I spoke of two twin 
sisters, Clara and Bertha? One your father married, and 
the other married Stephen Baine?” 

“Oh, yes, I do remember now,” said Pen, “and I 
wonder why I have not associated it before with the 
name of the lady and little girl I rode with in the stage 
coach.” 

“Do you know where Mr. Baine lives?” inquired 
Richard of Mr. Willets. 

“ I do not,” replied Willets, “but I can find out.” 

Richard asked particularly about the time the money 
was said to have been stolen, and then sat silently trying 
to study out some chain of thought, but could not, at 
the time, remember dates and facts of happenings that 
had taken place the Novemher before. 

At last he said, “ I do not know, Mr. Willets, but 
what I can throw some light on the robbery ; I do not 
promise that I can, but it is possible. I will brush rny 
memory up and perhaps will be able to think of some- 
thing that will throw light on the affair.” 

“ It is very like old Hinchey’s work, isn’t it ?” asked 
Pen. 

“I have grievances to right,” replied Richard. “A 
human cancer to pluck out from among men. It is a 
duty, and I will not shrink from it.” Then turning to 


AT DR. PULLINTWIST’S. 


149 


Mr. Willets, he asked, “ How long will you remain in 
Cinapolis ?” 

“ I have a ten days’ leave of absence from my duties 
at Hampton, and will remain here with my sisters a good 
full week.” 

The forenoon passed quickly away. Willets answer- 
ed all of Pen’s questions about his little sister and his 
aunt Zurilda, also about his schoolmates, especially Lin 
Brinkerhoff. Willets was very enthusiastic about Lin’s 
success in learning telegraphy, and said that “ the aspir- 
ing youth ” would soon be able to take charge of an 
office. 

It was agreed that neither Mr. Dorris, his wife, or 
Emily were to know anything about Richard’s unhappy 
past, and Willets said he would get Emily’s promise not 
to write a word about Richard or Pen to ’Rilla. 

“We have a duty,” said he, “ to perform; knotty knots 
to unravel ; grievances to punish ; the guilty to chastise 
and the injured to reward, and I, sir, Edward Willets, 
Esq., belong to the last named class.” 

The dinner hour past off very pleasantly, and Mr. 
Dorris, who had been sleeping all forenoon, said he 
would go down to the foundry and introduce Richard to 
Mr. James, the foreman. Soon after they had started on 
their errand, Mr. Willets’ usually smiling face was sud- 
denly wrinkled in pain. A decaying tooth had wakened 
up from its stupor, and was angrily inquiring why its 
1 very nerve of life should be thus exposed. 

“ You had better go to the dentist,” said Mrs. Dorris, 
“ and ha', e it pulled.” 

“ Hand me my hat, Pen, my charming boy, and come 
with me. The unruly molar shall be extracted though 
the shock I receive in parting company with it still the 
beating of my heart.” 

“ Oh, Edward !” said his sister, “ don’t make so much 
ado about it. I had nine pulled at one time. I would 
laugh,” she continued, “ if you should have the same 
experience that I had.” 

“ What sort of an experience had you ?” inquired 
the Inimitable Edward, as he looked at her in a crushed 
and forlorn way. 


150 


AT DR. PULLINTWIST’S. 


“ Why, my teeth always quit aching just as I got to 
the dentist’s office,” she answered. 

“Well,” said Willets, “I would laugh, too, if such 
good luck was my lot.” 

With this, he and Pen started away for the dental 
rooms of a suburban dentist. They walked along in 
silence until they'nvere almost to the office, when Wilieis 
suddenly turned to Pen and said : “ Would you, sir, have 
believed it ? That cussed tooth has caved, and is this 
instant begging my everlasting pardon ?” 

“ Doesn’t it ache at all ?” asked Pen. 

“Not a particle,” answered the Inimitable. “It is 
dumb as an oyster ; actually feels good. Things usually 
do, I believe, when they quit hurting ; but my mind is 
made up, and I shall sever my connections with Mr. 
Tooth.” 

“ There is the place,” said Pen, pointing to a building 
a little further on, where a huge sign swung creaking 
to and fro, with the words, “ Dr. Pullintwist’s Dental 
Rooms.” In addition to this announcement, the sign 
was decorated with the hieroglyphic trade-mark of a 
large, pointed tooth and a pair of forceps. 

“Yes,” said Willets, “there is no doubt that this is 
the place and ‘ now is the accepted time.’ ” 

They stepped into the room and found a fire burning 
brightly, but no dentist to receive them. The Inimit- 
able .nrew off his hat and coat, and declared that he felt 
as if he was a second Isaac about to be offered as a liv- 
ing sacrifice. 

Five minutes went by, and still no dentist came. 

During this time Willets had examined every pair of 
forceps in the establishment, and even tried them on his 
teeth, and finally proposed that Pen get into the chair, 
and he would play dentist and examine his masticators. 

Just then the door opened, and a middle-aged lady 
came in. As soon as she did so she commenced unty- 
ing the wraps and shawls that were bundled around her 
head. 

The Inimitable caught Pen’s eye and winked, and 
then Pen knew that something was coming. 


AT DR. PULLINTWIST’S. 


151 


“Most dead, doctor, am, indeed, with the tarnallest 
aching tooth you ever saw.” 

“Ah!” said Willets, “a very great affliction, madam, 
I know how to sympathize with you, I do indeed. Have 
had the top part of my head lifted up an inch, more or 
less, at every throb of an aching tooth, but thanks to 
science, madam, there is a remedy, and I presume you 
are here to avail yourself of that remedy.” 

“Yes, sir,” she answered, “ I either want it filled or 
jerked out ; ain’t caring which.” 

“ Knowing all the surroundings, madam,” said Wil- 
lets, “as I do, I certainly would advise that you have it 
extracted. Just take a seat here in my operating chair, 
and I will examine the fractious member of your masti- 
cating family. Ah! I see,” said the Inimitable, as he 
gazed down into the patient’s mouth. 

“ Now, which way would you prefer having it 
pulled ?” inquired Willets. 

“ Out!” she answered snappishly. 

“ I mean,” said the Inimitable, as he continued to ex- 
amine the aching tooth, “ which method, the French or 
Bengal. If you are at all acquainted with dental sur- 
gery, madam, you are aware that there are two systems 
of extracting teeth, the French and the Bengal sys- 
tems.” 

The patient did not propose to display her ignorance 
by acknowledging her lack of knowledge of the subject, 
and so she bluntly asked, “ What do you charge for pull- 
ing teeth ?” 

“ One dollar per tooth French system; two dollars, 
Bengal system,” said Willets. “ You, perhaps, are aware, 
madam, that the Bengal system is, so to speak, painless ; 
that is, painless compared to the French style of brutally 
mangling the jaw and ” 

“You may pull by the Bengal plan,” she inter- 
rupted. 

“Very well,” said Willets, as he seized a huge pair 
of pincers and thrust them into the patient’s mouth, 
fastening them on the wrong tooth. Then, with one 
arm around the woman’s head, he proceeded to pull with 


152 


AT DR. PULLLNTVVIST’S. 


ail the strength he could command, and out came the 
forceps, tooth and all. 

“ Holy mother !” cried the woman in unfeigned ago- 
ny, as she expectorated a mouthful of blood, and called 
for a glass of water, which Pen hastily handed her. 

While she was rinsing her mouth, Willets was exam- 
ining the tooth, and, to his amazement, found that he had 
relieved the woman of the wrong molar. 

“Madam,” said he, “let me again examine and see if 
my suspicions are true. I suspect that the real pain is 
occasioned by the adjoining tooth.” 

“Dr. Pullintwist,” said the woman, “ I told you to 
pull on the Bengal style. Why in the blowing winds 
didn’t ye do it ?” As she said this she settled back in 
the chair. 

Willets replied, saying, “ My good woman, I did as 
you told me — I pulled according to the latest improved 
Bengal style, and — ah !” said he, “just as I anticipated ; 
the tooth back of the rotten shell I extracted has a cav- 
ity in it, I was going to say twelve feet square, but of 
course it is not quite so large as that.” 

“ Well, for the love of the Holy Virgin, pull it out,” 
said the woman. 

“Just what I am going to do,” said Willets, and as 
he picked up the for_eps he observed, by way of expla- 
nation, “ Madam, you thought the Bengal system was 
painful ; now, to show you the vast difference, I will 
pull this by the French system, and if you don’t yell 
like a whole French army, then my name isn’t Pullin- 
twist.” 

“ No, no, doctor !” the woman screamed, “pull it by 
the Bengal style, if it does cost an extra dollar.” 

“ Just as you say,” replied Willets, and soon the 
decayed tooth was lying on the shelf along side of the 
sound one, and his patient was preparing to go. 

“ Do you make any difference in the price, doctor,” 
asked the woman, “when you pull two teeth ?” 

“Always, always,” replied the Inimitable, as he took 
a five dollar bill the woman reached him. “ My prices, 
madam, are always the same to the rich and the poor, 
the high and the low. Two dollars for one tooth, five 


AT DE. PULLINTWIST’S. 


153 


dollars for two, or ten dollars for three. I would have 
been most happy to have relieved you of another tooth, 
had your wants demanded it.” 

“ Five dollars !” shrieked the woman in amazement, 
“why I never thought of paying any such a price. I 
promised my little boy,” she said with a sigh, “I would 
bring a fowl home for supper, as it is his birthday, but 
now I will have to disappoint the little fellow.” 

“ Madam,” said Willets, “ my prices are unchanging 
and unchangeable, but permit me to present you with 
this. It is only a dollar, but I beg . you will accept it 
and purchase a fowl for your supper, and may God bless 
your charming little boy.” 

“ Thank you, sir, thank you,” said the woman grate- 
fully. “ Now I must go.” 

“ Wait a moment, madam. Has your darling boy a 
brother ?” 

“ Yes, sir, two ; one a man grown, and the other a 
baby boy.” 

“ Madam,” said Willets, “ permit me — here is another 
dollar for your little baby boy ; accept it, and make me 
happy, and may the angels guard your little one.” 

“ Oh, sir,” said the woman, “what will my sick hus- 
band say when I tell him of your kindness ?” 

“ Sick husband, did you say ? Is your husband an 
invalid, madam?” 

“ He has had a run of the fever, sir, for the past four 
weeks, but is much better now,” she replied. 

“Madam,” said Willets, in a voice that was now 
husky, “ permit me — here are five dollars ; present them 

your husband with my compliments.” 

“Oh, I cannot accept the present,” she hastily replied, 
“ I cannot indeed.” 

“ I do not want you to accept it,” said Willets, “ but I 
want your husband to. Be kind enough, madam, to carry 
the trifling present to him, and give him my compliments. 
I am not Dr. Pullintwist, but Edward Willets, Esq., here 
is my card. May I ask your name, madam ? 

“ Mrs. Lester, sir. My husband’s name is Daniel 

Lester, and my grown son is a — a — de Well, I must 

7 * 


154 


AT DR. PULLINTWIST’S. 


hurry home,” she said hurriedly. “ Good day, Mr. Wil- 
lets. ,, 

“ Good day, madam, good day.” 

“Well, Pen,” said Willets, “ I guess we’d better go. 

I do not care to play dentist any longer, though I have en- 
joyed the last hour immensely. What are you laughing 
at, my dear boy ?” 

“ Oh !” said Pen, “ it is all so funny to hear you talk 
and play dentist. I am very glad, Mr. Willets, that you 
did not keep the five dollars. I would not have enjoyed 
it at all if you had.” 

Willets put on his coat and remarked that his tooth 
was beginning to ache again. He had just buttoned up 
his coat when Doctor Pullintwist came in, and after 
greeting Willets, explained that he had been away in 
another part of the city doing some dental work. 

Willets was soon seated in the operator’s chair, and, 
in less time than it takes to -tell it, he and his unruly 
tooth parted company. The price was paid, and soon 
our two friends were walking briskly dowm the street 
toward the Dorris home. 

“Mr. Willets,” said Pen, “may I ask you a ques- 
tion ?” 

“Certainly, my charming young companion. What 
is it ?” 

“Why,” said Pen, while a smile flitted over his 
young countenance, “I wanted to ask what system the 
dentist pulled your tooth by, the French or Bengal ?” 

“ Look here, Pen,” said Willets, while a broad smile 
crept over his face, “‘jokes are free in harvest,’ but this 
isn’t harvest time, and I do not want my sisters to know 
that I have taken up a new profession,” 

That night at the supper table Richard told Pen that \ 
he had secured work as corresponding clerk for the ^ 
foreman of the foundry, and would commence his duties 
the following day, and that Pen was to begin his 
school days again, with Miss Emily Willets as in- 
structor. 

To say that Pen was overjoyed, would express his 
feelings but feebly. Emily Willets was a very hand- 
some lady, a perfect blonde in everything save her 


AT DR. PULLINTWIST’S. 


155 


lustrous dark eyes. She possessed a beautiful figure, 
not too tall, and just stout enough to give her whole 
bearing a healthy, robust appearance. 

Heretofore we have seen how she was admired for her 
winning, winsome ways at the Seminary, and those 
charms which then made her a favorite were gathering 
strength with the years. She was a beautiful young 
lady ; all agreed to this, while those who knew her best, 
loved her most. Her fair complexion needed no false 
make-up. Her eyes were always brim full of mirth and 
merriment, and her rose-tinted lips, wore a smile of glad- 
ness and contentment. No look of haughtiness or con- 
descension, so repulsive in all who wear it, was ever dis- 
coverable on her handsome countenance, or in her many 
gentle acts of kindness to those about her. 

As they were seated around the blazing, cheerful fire, 
that evening, Emily could have told them she had a 
visitor that day, but she did not tell even her sister. 

Yes, her school had been honored by a visitor. Not 
that visitors were uncommon, no, not that, but the visit- 
or was such a handsome young gentleman, and so frank 
and easy in his manner, and withal had such a deep 
musical voice that even Emily, staid, sensible Emily, was 
surprised to find herself thinking of him so much. Then, 
he acted so queerly ; he did not even give his name, but 
promised lhat she should know him soon. 

He even seemed familiar with her past history, yet 
all he said was expressed so cleverly that she could not 
feel otherwise than friendly toward him. 

Ah, Emily, Emily, you, too, are beginning to learn 
the lesson of life. It is not enough to have bread to eat 
and clothes to wear ; it is not enough to have your heart 
rich in happy thoughts and a mind well stored with 
knotty facts gleaned from musty school-books. No, in- 
deed ! ay, a thousand times, no ! It is sympathy and 
kindness, love, companionship and watchfulness that a 
woman wants. Duty, as told by the world, is an icy 
shadow, an empty nothingness, and can never fill the 
sanctuary of the heart. Woman was intended to be a 
cherished plant, nurtured by a skillful florist. Then, 
indeed, “ A thing of beauty is a joy forever,” and then 


156 


THE DETECTIVE. 


will the tender plant exhale its influence over the heart 
of a man and bless him in his labors. But how many 
men are unskillful florists ! The plant is transplanted 
from the nursery where it budded into life, away into 
isolation. It is neglected soon, and uncared for. Then 
it droops and languishes, and when the noontide heat of 
conflict comes creeping slowly but surely on, it sinks 
down. The velvet flower loses its beautiful colors ; its 
fragrance dries up, and its leaves, like the dry grasses, 
wither away and are no more. Such is the untimely 
end. 


CHAPTER XVI, 


BURT LESTER, THE DETECTIVE, IS TAKEN IN. 



HE following day found Richard at the foundry, 
learning the routine of his duties. 


He was a skillful penman when a younger 
man, and even now wrote a hand far better than the or- 
dinary copyist. 

Little Pen was now thirteen years old, but of rather 
diminutive stature. If, however, you studied his face, 
you would find a look of maturity stamped thereon. 
Not in any one feature, but in his almost sad and far- 
away look — such a look as we are all destined to feel, if 
not to wear, when our budding hopes are blasted bevond 
recovery by some rough wind. At such times, when our 
hopes are dashed ruthlessly to the earth, we are each dis- 
posed to claim the benefit of the doubt, and picture to 
ourselves the fragrant, bright-colored flowers they might 
have borne, had they lived and prospered well. 

Emily soon found that Pen was already well ad- 
vanced in his studies, much beyond his years. 

It might be well for us to explain before Emily’s hrud- 
some visitor calls again, who he is and where he came 
from and what is his errand. To do this it will be nec- 
essary to take you, dear reader, by the hand, and perform 
the feat of an instantaneous trip through space, and bring 


THE DETECTIVE. 


157 


up at “ Dairyfield Farm,” where our old friend, Stephen 
Baine, and his household reside. 

’Rilla Tobias and Kittie Pernbrooke are still at the 
farm, and little sweet-faced Lillie Baine is growing pret- 
tier every day. Her only brother, Harry Baine, is absent 
from home, and has been away since shortly after his 
father had the misfortune of losing the money at Hamp- 
ton. His going away came about in this manner. 

It seemed that Burt Lester, the detective, had, for 
reasons of his own, concluded to visit Mr. Baine and 
have a personal interview with the loser of the wealth 
which he was searching for. 

Accordingly, Lawyer Westover was informed of the 
wish, and another detective was secured to look after 
Willets’ movements for a few days and Burt Lester 
started for Dairyfield Farm. 

Arriving there, he presented his letter of introduction 
and was hospitably received. For two long hours dur- 
ing the afternoon of his arrival, he and Mr. Baine held 
private consultation in the library. At the supper table 
the detective met the entire family, and seemed consid- 
erably interested in Harry Baine, and, although he did 
not show it, yet he was desperately taken with Miss Kit- 
tie Pernbrooke. 

The supper hour passed off very pleasantly, and 
Burt Lester felt as though he would gladly abandon 
the life of a detective, and turn to farming and 
cheese making, if he could have such a home as Dairy- 
field Farm. 

Immediately after supper Mr. Baine said, “Young 
ladies, I want you to favor us with some music presently. 
Mr. Lester and I will retire to the library for an after- 
supper smoke, and then join you in the parlors.” 

“ We will do the best we can for you, uncle,” Kittie 
i responded cheerfully. 

“You say,” said the detective, after they had gained 
the privacy of the library, “ that Miss Pernbrooke told 
you this story about the murdered merchant, Mr. Bethel, 
and the part that Edward Willets acted ?” 

“Yes, sir,” responded Mr. Baine. 

“ I am acquainted with the case,” said Lester, “ and I 


158 


THE DETECTIVE. 


will tell you now, frankly, that I am inclined to believe 
that Willets had nothing to do with the murder of Bethel, 
but he may have been an ally. His finding the purse 
was all a sham, — at least good detectives hold to that 
theory. They think he became alarmed, and after re- 
lieving the purse of about half its contents, gave the 
rest back, and in this way attempted to prove himself 
innocent of any knowledge of the affair ; and he suc- 
ceeded with a majority of the people.” 

“ Do you mean to tell me, sir,” asked Mr. Baine, 

“ that you suspect he was a party to the robbery ?” 

“ Exactly,” answered Lester ; “that is just what I be- 
lieve.” 

“ Well, don’t it beat thunder and high water,” said 
Mr. Baine, impatiently, “ how these slick chaps can fool 
the women. Now, my niece, Kittie Pembrooke, believes 
firmly that this man Willets proved himself to be a 
model of honesty in the part he played in that affair, 
and she is a young lady of mighty good sense, Mr. 
Lester.” 

“ I cannot help but agree with you on that point,” re- 
plied Burt. “ She impressed me as being a young lady 
of remarkably good judgment, as well as looks.” 

“Perhaps,” said Mr. Baine, “you had better have a 
talk with my niece, and possibly she may be able to tell 
you a good many things about Willets’ people, where 
they live, etc.” 

“ Perhaps,” evasively answered Burt, while a flush- 
ed look of pleasure overspread his handsome face. 

Taking a note book from his pocket, he penciled 
some new thoughts, and then turning to Mr. Baine said : 

“ I wish I had your son with me ; I think he would be 
a great help.” 

“ If you need him, Mr. Lester, he shall go with you,” f 
said Mr. Baine. 

“ I certainly think he would be of assistance to me,” 
replied Burt, “in numberless ways.” 

“In the morning, then,” said Mr, Baine, “we will 
have a talk with my son, and if he is agreeable, he may 
accompany you back to Hampton. But come, Mr. Les- 


THE DETECTIVE. 


159 


ter, I see you have finished your cigar ; come, let us join 
the ladies.” 

Burt was only too willing to comply, for there was a 
fascination in Kittie Pembrooke’s society that exercised 
a wonderful influence over him. 

She was chatting away gleefully, when they entered 
the room, and had apparently just finished telling some 
very amusing story, for her companions all joined in a 
very hearty laugh of merriment. 

Burt had always felt that angelic beauty and deep 
affections were myths that were only found in books of 
fiction, but now as his eyes benignly rested on Kittie 
Pembrooke, he said to himself, “ she certainly is beauti- 
ful.” 

She wore a dark blue silk which exquisitely fitted her 
slender, graceful figure, and was relieved at the throat 
by a cream tinted lace collar fastened with a handsome 
cameo pin. Her glossy black hair was worn in accord- 
ance with the prevailing style. Her figure was fault- 
lessly symmetrical, and her face radiant and beautiful. 
The features were clearly cut and regular ; the eyes, of 
deep violet blue, were shaded by long dark lashes, and 
her cheeks and lips wore the coral bloom and tint of 
health. 

’Rilla Tobias was also an entertaining young lady, 
but she was not possessed of that dazzling beauty which 
nature had so lavishly bestowed upon Kittie. 

The evening passed pleasantly away, all too soon for 
Burt Lester. 

It hardly seemed to have begun, when it was over. 
Burt, on reaching his room, first closed the door and 
fastened it, then looked in the commode mirror. He 
scrutinized himself for some time. Had his thoughts 
been reduced to words they would have run as follows : 
“ Burt, old boy, I think you have struck a trail. I am 
afraid you are losing your nerve, and if you don’t get 
out of this soon, all your detective metal will have been 
taken out of you. What ? You say that again, you ras- 
cal, that you are in love with Kittie Pembrooke’s pretty 
face, and I will punish you within an inch of your life ; 


160 


THE DETECTIVE. 


I will, by heavens, I will. No more of this fooling, sir. 
Mind what I tell you, no more of it.” 

Presently he drew a cigar from his pocket, and seat- 
ing himself in an easy chair, continued his reflections 
long into the night. 

“ What is life?” he at last asked himself, and then a 
tiny murmuring voice whispered in his ear, “Life is the 
valley between birth and death. Looking backward or 
forward all is unlimited space. Life has its Springtime 
of growing freshness ; its Summer of maturity ; its 
Autumnal decline, and then its cold Winter of death ; 
after that follows the unknown limitless eternity.” 

“ If this is true,” he soliloquized, “ is man in death 
more than the dead flower ? Will his body, like the 
flower, crumble into dust, and in time be reanimated, 
remoulded, and lighted with a new soul, and claim an- 
other lease of life, and set out on another journey across 
the valley, only to follow the dim footsteps of preceding 
generations, and when time again grows ripe, vanish 
by an appointed process and again mingle dust with 
brother dust ? If so, then from the creation of the 
mother earth down to the present time, nothing has been 
added to it and nothing taken away.” 

Again a voice answered him, but this time it appeared 
to come from above, and seemingly a great way off, 
away among the wintry stars that peeped in at his win- 
dow, and it said, “All things are governed by law and 
order, according to the mandates of the Divine Lawgiver. 
Every leaf that falls, every shrub that grows, all fruits 
that ripen, all flowers that bloom, all waters of river and 
ocean, are alike governed by an unchanging law. The 
love of the God of the Universe is over all His works, 
like a protecting mantle. Though you should travel to 
the uttermost parts of the earth, lo ! He is there. Take 
the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost 
parts of the sea, lo ! He is there ! The children of the 
Universe, whether care-free and happy, or sorrowing in 
anguish, are alike His children, and not orphans. The 
God of Heaven and Earth is a God of love universal, and 
stretches out His arms and encircles the rich and the poor, 
the white and the black. He is no respecter of persons. 


THE DETECTIVE. 


161 


“ When the sorrow-laden grows weary and rests by the 
wayside, and finally is lulled into that stilled slumber, 
and the lips grow cold and voiceless, it is not true that 
there is no waking, nor is it true that when he does 
waken, it will be in a stormy, tempest-tossed chaos of- 
everlasting midnight. No, it is not true that such is the 
end, but it is true that he goes home to his beloved dead, 
and joyfully rejoins the kindred spirits of those who have 
gone before. Yes, he spends a happy blissful eternity in 
the New Jerusalem. ‘ In my father’s house are many 
mansions.’ There death is no more. There the wicked 
cease from troubling and the weary are at rest forever 
and forever.” 

After this the voice ceased speaking, and was heard 
no more, and Burt Lester soon after sought his bed, 
thinking, .as he did so, that if this was his springtime of 
life why need he be so determined not to find some noble 
woman, who through the succeeding years of summer- 
time, fall, and winter, would be his companion. 

The day following he had an interview with Kitty 
Pembrooke, and for a full hour they conversed very 
pleasantly together. The conversation consisted mostly, 
however, in interrogatives on Burt Lester’s part, and 
answers by Kittie. Every question that Burt propound- 
ed, and every question that Kittie answered, snared self- 
reliant Burt Lester more hoplessly in the toils of cap- 
tivity. 

At last, for the want of something better to talk of, 
he said, “I believe that is all, Miss Pembrooke.” Then, 
looking deep into her blue eyes, he added, “ There is one 
other question I wish to ask, but not now. When the 
case developes I may ask it.” 

“ I would be pleased,” said Kittie, “ to answer any 
question, Mr. Lester, that is in my power to answer, for 
I am sure Mr. Willets is as innocent of the crime as an 
angel.” 

“You mean, then,” said Burt, while a smile lit up his 
countenance, “ that he is as innocent of the crime as you 
are ?” 

“ I hardly think,” answered Kittie, laughing, “ there 
is much of a compliment, Mr. Lester, in your interro- 


162 


THE DETECTIVE. 


gatory, for men of your profession are accustomed to see 
anything but angels in angels’ disguise.” 

“ In no such attire,” said Burt, “as you are wearing, 
Miss Pembrooke.” 

“Ah! I see now,” she said, mischievously, “you are 
trying to compliment my dress.” 

As she said this she arose, and added, in a less mirth- 
ful tone, “I do hope, Mr. Lester, you will be successful 
in finding out the person who took uncle’s money, and 
then Mr. Willets will be wholly exonerated.” 

“I see, Miss Pembrooke,” said Burt, arising, “that 
you are greatly interested in Mr. Willets.” As he said 
this a pained look stole over his countenance. 

“Yes, sir,” Kittie answered frankly, “lam very much 
interested in his welfare.” 

“I thought as much,” said Burt, gloomily. Then 
brightening up, he said, “ I hope, Miss Pembrooke, that 
all will be righted, and that justice will be done. If any 
man has, .erred, let him pay the usurious fees of ex- 
perience. Now, if I am not asking too much, may I 
hear you sing again before I go ? I will start imme- 
diately after dinner.” 

“ Why — yes, sir, I will sing now for you,” she said, half 
reluctantly. “ Come this way, Mr. Lester,” and she led the 
way into the parlor. She seated herself at the piano, 
and her slender fingers glided through a prelude with 
velvety softness of touch. Then she sang, with a full- 
voiced sweetness: 


“ When daylight fades, 

And sombre shades 
Steal through the distant elms, 
With the fading light 
My soul takes flight 
Beyond the mystic realms." 


“ I’ll flv in my dreams 
To marvelous streams, 
Away over monutain and leas, 
W here palaces stand 
On the golden strand 
By the margins of crystal seas. 


THE DETECTIVE. 


163 


“ Where beautiful flowers, 

In moonlit bowers. 

Unfold to the wondrous strain, 

* Let my eyelids close 
In resting repose ; 

Awake, and let me dream again .’ 1 

Her magnificent voice held Burt Lester spell-bound 
as it swelled deep and full, then thrillingly low in its 
enchanting melody, and then ringingout clear and sweet 
as the chiming of bells. 

As she sang, the words fell from her lips in such har- 
mony with the rippling notes, that they seemed to be 
echoing from the very depths of her soul. It was a 
natural gift, — the strength and fullness, the soft melodi- 
ous thrill, the sweetness of voice and purity, — a gift such 
as our Divine Creator confers on warbling birds of the 
forest, to win us from cankering heart-aches as we jour- 
ney on toward the end. 

Art could never produce such music, but culture had 
improved and perfected it. When she had finished, he 
woke from the spell and repeated : 

“ Awake, and let me dream again !” 

He thanked her warmly, and said : “ Miss Pem- 

brooke, your uncle, Mr. Baine, told me that you were 
very anxious to learn the whereabouts of your little 
brother, Penfield Pembrooke. Can I not assist you in 
some way ?” 

“ Oh, sir,” said Kittie, as she clasped her hands to- 
gether, “if you only could, you do not knowhow thank- 
ful I would be ; and then Grandfather Pembrooke 
would bless you to his dying day for the noble ser- 
vice.” 

“I would not want a greater blessing,” said Burt, 
“ than to make you happy. Excuse me, Miss Pembrooke, 
but there are times in life, I find, when the tongues of 
men speak wildly.” 

Kittie looked confused, and hardly knew what reply 
to make, when fortunately Mr. Baine came in, and in 
his usual good humor said, “ Well, Mr. Lester, how long 
does it usually take you to interview a witness ?” and 
then mistaking Kittie’s flushed face to be the result of 


164 


THE DETECTIVE. 


his own words he continued, “ Hey, Kittie ! blush- 
ing ?” 

“ Oh, uncle,” she said, “ Mr. Lester has promised to 
try to find Pen/’ 

“Well, that’s kind of him, lam sure,” replied Mr. 
Baine, and then looking very merry out of his twinkling 
eyes, he added : “ It would be rather romantic, Kittie, if 
Mr. Lester should find the brother and then claim the 
sister for fees,” and here the old gentleman laughed a 
long, hearty laugh. 

“Uncle Stephen,” said Kittie, poutingly, “you are so 
dreadful when you get to joking, you don’t care a bit 
what you say.” 

“Ho! ho!” said theold gentleman, “I guess she is 
going to get angry at her old uncle.” 

“ It is time enough for her to be angry,” said Burt, 
beamingly, “ when I have the audacity to demand the 
fee.” 

This brought out a smile all around, and the three 
sat down and talked matters over, relative to facts known 
about Pen, and how it would be best to proceed. 

After dinner Harry Baine and Burt Lester were to 
start away. Mrs. Baine rather objected at first to his 
going, but she finally withdrew her objections when she 
was told that little Pen Pembrooke was to be hunted 
up, and that Harry was going to help find him. 

Lillie kissed her brother good-by, and said : “ Brother, 
I want you to see if Pen has taken good care of the 
Bible I gave him, and I want you to tell Uncle George 
Tobias to come to the farm again right away, for I want 
to see him.” 

While Harry was taking leave of the family, Burt 
found an opportunity to say aside to Kittie : “ You’ll not 
forget, Miss Pembrooke, that I have a question to ask 
you, sometime in the future ?” 

“ I believe you said something about another inter- 
rogatory, but I really believe you only said so to gain 
time, for I am sure you asked me every question you 
could possibly think of.” 

At this she laughed a little provoking laugh that 


THE DETECTIVE. 


165 


knocked all the sentimentality of their parting out of 
the question. 

Burt Lester tried hard to laugh, too, and appear jolly, 
but it was more than he could accomplish successfully. 
The farewells, however, were finally said, and our two 
friends pushed on to Hampton, stopping in Chicago to 
get some make-ups for Harry. 

Burt and Harry soon became great friends. They 
seemed to be involuntarily drawn to one another, and 
each accepted the new relation without stopping to in- 
quire as to the cause. 

Thus the remaining part of the winter had passed, 
until Edward Willets, Esq., had applied for and obtained 
a leave of absence. 

The same train that carried the Inimitable Willets to 
Cinapolis, also carried two other passengers among the 
many travelers whe alighted at this place. One was a 
a very old and infirm man, who walked with a staff, the 
other an English, mutton-chopped individual, who wore 
goggles, but the only service the goggles rendered was 
to save the stylish Englishman the annoying trouble of 
using his eye-glass, which swung from the lapel of his 
vest. It is needless to say that one of these travelers was 
Burt Lester and the other Harry Baine. We have seen 
how the latter called on Emily Willets, and also, have 
seen what an impression the gentleman in question 
had made. 

The evening after his visit to the school he and 
Burt were snugly quartered with Burt’s father, Mr. 
Daniel Lester. As to Burt’s mother, we have formed 
her acquaintance at the dental rooms of Dr. Pullin- 
twist. 

Burt had never spoken to Harry during all the 
months of their companionship about his cousin, Kittie 
Pembrooke, but labored under the impression that Ed- 
ward Willets was more than her friend, and he secretly 
determined to hunt the Inimitable down, unmask him, 
and then ask Kittie Pembrooke one more question. 

Harry Baine had often heard ’Rilla and his Cousiu 
Kittie praise Emily Willets’ beauty, and he had a great 
desire to see her. What he thought of her can be best 


166 


T11E UETECTIVE. 


told by the Scriptural citation, “ The half has not been 
told me,” which he muttered to himself as he walked 
away from the school-house. 

Mr. Daniel Lester had been sick, but was now con- 
valescent, and all the tonics and medicines in Cinapolis 
could not have done him the good that his son Burt’s 
appearance did. Mrs. Lester showed Edward Willets’ 
card as soon as she returned home, and told of her ex- 
perience at Dr. Pullintwist’s office, and that evening 
while they were all seated around the fire, she turned to 
her son and asked, half reluctantly (as if she had sus- 
picions that the question she was going to ask, was not 
a ruse of VVillets) : 

“Do you know, Burt, how many systems dentists 
employ in pulling teeth?” 

“1 hardly understand your question, mother,” replied 
Burt. 

“Well,” she .responded, “is there such a thing as 
pulling teeth by the French or the Bengal Systems ?” 

Burt, unruly son that he was, actually laughed out- 
right at his mother’s question, and the convalescent 
husband joined in the merriment. 

“Why, mother,” said Burt at last, “ Willets is no 
more of a dentist than you are, and those systems he 
told you of are myths, and generated in his own vivid 
conception. He is a queer study. Sometimes he is so 
gorgeously voluminous in eloquence that you would 
naturally think, to hear him, that he was a public crier 
of some kind, or an experienced patent medicine vender. 
Again, in a fit of despondency, he will mope about as if 
he was doomed to travel in the bottom-most pit of mid- 
night chaos, and the flickering light of Hope had forever 
gone out. In money matters, so far as the detectives 
could find out, he was the same sort of a financier, 
through all his life that he has proved himself to be 
while playing dentist at Dr. Pullintwist’s office. 

That night, after Harry and Burt found the privacy 
of their own room, the former said, “ I tell you, Burt, I 
do not believe Willets is the guilty man, and unless 
something happens while he is here in Cinapolis to 


THE DETECTIVE. 


167 


prove him guilty, I am a going to look for a trail in an- 
other quarter.” 

“ Did you call on Willets’ sister to day ?” asked Burt. 

“ I certainly did,” replied Harry, and his face flushed 
scarlet, then with a determined look he hastily added, 
“ I called on her at the school room, and in doing so, I 
called on the handsomest lady in America.” 

Burt looked up and met Harry’s steady gaze and 
saw he was in dead earnest. 

He mockingly appeared to examine Harry’s pulse, 
and then gave a low whistle, and said, “ I guess it is a 
case.” 

“ That’s all right, Lester,” replied Harry good hu- 
moredly, “ I have seen cases before, though I never was 
a victim myself until to day.” 

Burt looked up quickly at his companion, and men- 
tally soliloquized : “ Surely, Harry does not suspect that 
I am as deep in the meshes myself, occasioned by Kittie 
Pembrooke, God bless her.” Then with great delibera- 
tion, he replied, “ Harry Baine, I do not know how much 
of this nonsensical foolishness you may have seen in 
your day, but I speak for myself, Burt Lester, when I 
say that I know nothing about it.” There, thought Burt, 
that will make him say something, if he suspects any- 
thing. 

Harry chuckled an ironical laugh, and said : “I hope, 
Burt, you are not so blind as to imagine that I am 
ignorant of the cupid-cyclone that struck you a fair, 
full blow when you visited Dairyfield Farm. Why, all 
our family knew that it was a case of the most malig- 
nant type.” 

Here Harry broke into a violent fit of laughter and 
held his sides in the mirthful exercise. 

Burt Lester sat like a statue while Harry was speak- 
ing, and for some time after, but finally he concluded it 
was useless to hold out, and so he too fell into the chorus 
part of his companion’s merriment. 

“There is no use denying it,” said Burt; “ I was 
dreadfully smitten, and if Edward Willets is hunted 
down and proven guilty then I will have a chance.” 

“ What do you mean by that?” asked Harry. 




168 


THE DETECTIVE. 


“ I mean,” replied Burt, “ that Kittie Pembrooke told 
me she felt a great interest in Mr. Willets, and knew he 
was innocent, and all that kind of talk, which gave me 
to understand that — that — ” 

“That Edward Willets had her affections ?” interrog- 
atively interrupted Harry. 

“Yes, sir,” replied Burt with an effort, “ that is what 
I wanted to say.” 

At this Harry Baine gave a prolonged whistle, and 
then almost convulsed himself with another fit of laugh- 
ter, but finally he sobered down enough to say : 

“Well, Burt Lester, the shrewd and never-to-be- 
taken-in*detective, a man who, because of his deep pene- 
tration into hidden mysteries, has earned a world- wide 
reputation ; I am surprised at your stupidity !” 

“ What do you mean ?” asked Burt, brusquely. 

“I mean,” answered Harry, “that Edward Willets is 
betrothed to ’Rilla Tobias, Kittie’s friend, whom you met 
while at the farm, and this is the reason, and the only 
reason, why she takes such an interest in clearing away 
the shadow of doubt which hangs over Mr. Willets.” 

This information was so sudden, and such good news, 
that Burt could say nothing, and presently bade Harry 
good night and sought his own room, and hastily pre- 
pared himself for bed. 

As he lay down he wondered if he would not hear 
some tiny voice whispering to him again in his dreams. 
Presently, these words of Irving’s came to his mind : 

“ Thus man passes away ; his name perishes from 
record and recollection ; his history is as a tale that is 
told, and his very monument becomes a ruin.” 

These words furnished him food for thought and 
reverie. Finally sleep stole over him and he slumbered 
on in invigorating repose. Suddenly he started up, and 
in his sleep muttered, 

“Awake, and let me dream again.” 


DANIEL WEBSTER LAWSON. 


169 


CHAPTER XVII. 


DANIEL WEBSTER LAWSON, THE DETECTIVE’S NEW NAME. 

FEW days after the events narrated, Edward Wil- 



lets took leave of his sisters, and started back to 


Hampton. Arriving- there he again commenced 


his labors as operator, feeling greatly refreshed and rest- 
ed from his trip. 

Burt and Harry accompanied him home, none the 
wiser for the trip, although had Harry Baine only known 
it, dittle Pen Pembrooke was present when he bade 
Emily Willets good-by. 

Had Burt Lester formed Richard Tobias’s acquaint- 
ance, he might have accomplished the result of years of 
hard work in a single day, for Richard was the key 
that was destined to unlock some of the doors of mys- 
tery. 

The detectives did not lose heart, but daily reported 
to Lawyer Westover. 

The second day after their return to Hampton, Edith 
Brinkerhoff, Lin’s sister, alighted from the train. 

The old fruit-tree solicitor was at the depot at the 
time, and wondered at it, as Lin had never intimated to 
Willets, in any of their night conversations, that his 
sister was going away from Hampton. The detective 
knew this, for he had heard every word of conversation 
that had passed between them. 

When Edith Brinkerhoff stepped off the train, she did 
not do as sisters usually do when they have been away 
from home. She did not even speak to Lin, although 
the detective thought their eyes met for an instant as she 
passed along the platform. 

Where had she been ? It was none of the detective’s 
business, unless it had something to do with his case, 
and if she had been away on such a business trip as 
smuggling the money out of Hampton, how exasperated 
he would feel. 



8 


170 


DANIEL WEBSTER LAWSON. 


Why had she gone away when he was in Cinapolis ? 
Why did she not speak to her brother on her return ? 

“I am only sure of one thing after all,” Burt solilo- 
quized to himself, “and that is, Willets and Lin Brinker- 
hoff are not partners in the theft. I cannot say that I am 
certain Willets took the money, although circumstantial 
evidence points to him as being thd man. Nothing has 
ever looked suspicious against the boy until now, and 
that is the peculiar movements of his sister.” Even in 
this Burt might be mistaken. That evening he told 
Harry Baine of the new clew, and what he had, detective- 
like, syspected, and concluded his remarks by saying : 
“I tell you, sir, we must try and find out where she has 
been.” 

“This is the first time in the chase,” said Harry, 
“that I have felt we were getting down to business. 
Father told me that for some unaccountable reason he 
believed the boy was the guilty one., and that Willets was 
innocent.” 

“I know,” replied Burt, thoughtfully, “that your 
father’s impressions are against the boy, but a scientific 
detective must have a better base to rest on than mere 
impressions.” 

“I have spent two evenings at Mr. BrinkerhofFs,” 
said Harry, “ and perhaps I had better talk sweet to 
charming Edith, and follow up the vantage ground.” 

“That is the proper programme,” said Burt, quickly, 
“ and if she does not say anything about her trip, then 
we will know she does not care about any one knowing 
where she has been.” 

The following evening found Harry Baine walking 
leisurely along the street on which Mrs. Brinkerhoff 
lived. Fortune usually favored him in his undertakings, 
and this evening was no exception, for just as he drew 
near the house he heard some one coming along the 
sidewalk behind him, and before he had time to even 
glance over his shoulder, a feminine voice said : “Are 
you out for a walk, Mr. Gibbs?” 

Harry hastily turned and stood face to face with 
Edith Brinkerhoff, and replied, saying, “ Why, good 
evening, Miss Brinkerhoff ; almost you startled me. 


DANIEL WEBSTER LAWSON. 


171 


You came as suddenly on 'my vision as a ministering 
spirit.” 

“ I feel so light and airy with these bunglesome over- 
shoes on and my winter wraps, that I am sure I look 
like a rather healthy materialized spirit.” A mellow, 
captivating little laugh followed this remark, and Harry 
Gibbs, as he called himself at Hampton, was quite sure 
he never heard such a clever, witty girl as was Miss 
Brinkerhoff in his life. 

“Oh, you are trying to flatter me now, Mr. Gibbs ; 
men are such flatterers, any way.” 

“ Indeed, I am not/’ replied Harry, in his soberest 
tones. “I have made that remark a dozen different 
times.” 

“ Yes,” said Edith, “ I guess you have told me that 
a full dozen times already in our short acquaintance, 
but I will wager you never told any one else you thought 
so.” 

“ I assure you I have many times, Miss Brinkerhoff,” 
replied Harry, with great earnestness. 

“Come in and spend the evening with us, Mr. Gibbs, 
can’t you ?” 

“ Knowing your superior ability to entertain, to say 
nothing of your conversational powers, I can only ac- 
cept your kind invitation and tender you my thanks for 
extending it to me.” 

“Mr. Gibbs,” said she, as they came into the house, 
“you have been an apt scholar under Edward Willets’ 
tutelage. You are almost as voluminous as he.” 

After they were comfortably seated around the glow- 
ing hearth, with Mrs. Brinkerhoff in her accustomed 
place, Harry observed that he had had a very pleasant 
trip while he was away from Hampton, and enjoyed it 
very much. 

“ Edith just returned yesterday,” said Mrs. Brinker- 
hoff, looking up from her work. “ She was away over a 
week at my cousin’s, who lives at Milford, nearJackson- 
town.” 

“ At Jacksontown ?” said Harry, appearing not to have 
perfectly understood her remark, “why, I am acquainted 
some in that city. What is your cousin’s name ?” 


172 


DANIEL WEBSTER LAWSON. 


“ James Lawson. He is'-an attorney, but he does not 
reside at Jacksontown ; he lives in a small village near 
there, by the name of Milford. Do you know him ?” 

“No, I believe not,” replied Harry, then turning to 
Edith, whose face was terribly flushed, but perhaps only 
from the effects of the chilly air without, he said, “ I 
forgot to tell you that we are to have a dress ball next 
Thursday evening, wnich promises to be the event of the 
season.” 

But somehow Edith is not thinking of grand balls as 
much as she is of something else. 

In reply to Harry’s information she merely inclines 
her head and says, “ Is that so ?” 

Harry goes on quite glibly, speaking of little incidents 
of interest to Hampton society. 

“Mr. Gibbs,” says Edith, suddenly, “ are you quite 
well acquainted with Mr. Drake, the old man who for 
several months has been soliciting orders for fruit trees ?” 

“Why, I see him every day,” replied Harry, “and 
frequently dine at the same table with him.” 

“ What do you think of him ?” she abruptly inquired. 

“ Very nice old man to all appearances,” said Harry, 
“but really, Miss Brinkerhoff, I could hardly express an 
opinion, for I very seldom talk with old men, they are 
so fossilized in their ideas and ways.” 

“ I think,” said Mrs. Brinkerhoff, “that Lin is mis- 
taken in his surmises.” 

If she could have seen the annoyed look her daughter 
gave her she would have desisted from speaking farther, 
but she did not see, and went on, “ Lin, my son, who, by 
the way, Mr. Gibbs, is a very bright boy. if he is my 
child, thinks that the old man, Uncle Jimmie Drake, as 
he calls himself, is some kind of a detective, and says he 
don’t think he is an old man at all.” 

“ Mother,” said Edith, brusquely, “ I do not think you 
should be quite so free about expressing home fireside 
talk.” 

“ My land, Edith ! what harm can possibly come of 
it ?” queried the old lady. 

“ I don’t know,” answered her daughter impatiently, 


DANIEL WEBSTER LAWSON. 


173 


that anything will ever come of it, nor do I know but 
something might.” 

Harry concluded not to remain any longer, and pres- 
ently took his leave ; but before he went away he had 
promised to escort Edith to the dress ball the following 
Thursday night. 

Harry was not long in hunting Burt up, and telling 
him all that he had learned that evening. 

“Come,” said Burt, “let us go to our rooms.” 

As they walked silently along he gave himself up to 
thought. When their rooms were reached, he turned to 
Harry and said: “Well, by Heavens, old fellow, who 
would have thought it ? Here is this boy, Lin Brinker- 
hoff, acquitted on trial of any knowledge of the affair, 
and then the innocent, unsophisticated chap tumbles to 
our little game and business, and as soon as we are away 
from Hampton, away goes this sister of his and carries 
the entire ‘boodle’ to safety. I don’t say, Harry, that it 
is this way, but, by the eternal Heavens, it looks as if it 
might be. I will wager my head that he is the sharpest 
boy I ever struck.” 

“ I think, Burt,” said Harry, “that father’s impres- 
sions may yet prove true.” 

“ There is one thing evident,” said Burt, thoughtfully, 
“that looks weak, and that is, old Mrs. Brinkerhoff’s 
telling so much. Now Lin, if it should turn out that 
he is the thief, never could have done it alone, and if his 
sister is an accomplice, why not the mother ?” 

“No, sir; Burt Lester, you are wrong there,” said 
Harry, feelingly ; “ I never will believe that motherly 
Mrs. Brinkerhoff knows anything about her children’s 
knowledge of the affair, and the very reason that she 
does not know anything about it, is because, if she did, she 
would give her children up to justice rather than be- 
come a party to such a crime.” 

“Your faith in Mrs. Brinkerhoff seems unbounded,” 
said Burt, “ and I am inclined to view the matter in much 
the same way myself. Now, old boy, you watch Hampton. 
The little old man will pack his trunk and leave at 
twelve o’clock to-night, baggage and all. Am going to 
fill my orders for fruit trees, shrubbery, etc.,” said he, 


174 


DANIEL WEBSTER LAWSON. 


with a knowing look, “and don’t be surprised, Harry, if 
the old fruit-tree man never shows up again.’’ Then 
they got down to sober talk, and arranged their plans 
for future work. Harry Baine should remain in Hamp- 
ton and play the role of “tank inspector” on both lines 
of railways, and Burt Lester would start for Milford, 
near Jacksontown, to learn what he could, and visit 
James Lawson, the attorney. 

Accordingly Mr. Scudrnore, the landlord of the Hamp- 
ton Hotel, was informed that Uncle Jimmie Drake would 
start away that night. In due time the old man’s bag- 
gage was taken over to the depot, a ticket purchased for 
Chicago and the baggage checked. 

Not many days after this, the lumbering old stage- 
coach that came to Milford as many times a week as 
there are working days in a week, drew up before the 
old time-worn hotel, and sat down its only passenger. 
The lone passenger stared about him, reading two or 
three times the weather-beaten sign which announced 
“Entertainment for Man and Beast,” and picking up his 
1 uge satchel, walked awkwardly into the hotel, He was 
met at the door by the landlord, who looked as if he had 
just awakened from a sound sleep and was greatly dis- 
satisfied with himself for having overslept and let the 
stage go by without seeing it. 

Milford was rather a neat village, and undoubtedly 
presented a very restful look in the summer time. 

It was. now in the early days of March, and Nor’- 
westers were not uncommon followers of a pleasant 
day. By a pleasant March day, we mean such a one 
as our grandfathers would have called “ weather breed- 
ers.” 

“ How-d’y-do ? Come in on the stage ?” said the land- 
lord to the new arrival. 

“ Yes, sir, jest got in,” said the new comer. 

“Scribble your name down there,” said mine host, as 
he turned the greasy ledger around and presented a 
time-worn, corroded pen to his guest. 

The stranger looked at the ledger, and then at the 
landlord, and bashfully said, “Write my name in the 
book ?” 


* DANIEL WEBSTER LAWSON. 


175 


“Yes, sir,” said the almost sympathetic landlord, for 
he felt that here was a “greeny” just from the farm, and 
he pitied such persons, for h;. himself came from a rural 
district when a young man, and it cost him dearly for 
the label “Experience.” 

The stranger pushed his hat back and his coat sleeve 
up, then picked up the pen awkwardly, dipped it two or 
three times in the ink, and as often as he did so, tried to 
write his name. 

“Dang my buttons,” he at last said, “this tarnel pen 
wonT write.” 

“Try this one,” said the landlord. 

The stranger took the new pen, and with a great 
many grimaces and unnecessary efforts, inscribed in a 
very sprawling, coarse hand the name, “ Daniel Webster 
Lawson, Pike Corners, York State.” 

This done, he scanned his work closely for a few 
moments, and laid the pen down very carefully, as if 
there was great danger of getting it out of repair. With 
a sort of bewildered look, he straightened up from the 
counter where lay the register, and sought the bottom 
of his breeches pockets, as if wondering if there was any- 
thing else incumbent on him to do. 

“I see,” observed the landlord, “that you are a 
stranger in these parts.” 

“You’re gol-derned right I be,” drawled out Daniel 
W. Lawson, “an’ it’s mighty lonesome, sort-a.” 

“Will you remain in Milford long?” queried the 
landlord. 

“ Just middlin’,” replied Lawson; “maybe I’ll stay 
longer, but don’t know certain.” 

“ I see you are from New York?” said the landlord 
in an interrogatory tone. 

“ Yes, I am a down-easter, I be,” was the drawled 
out reply. 

“Come to Milford on business, I suppose?” said the 
persistent landlord, 

“Just sort-a like, not much, though,” was the unsatis- 
factory reply. 

“ Perhaps you will want a team to drive around and 


i 


176 DANIEL WEBSTER LAWSON. 

see the country ?” said the curious and not-to-be-put- 
down landlord. 

“ Yer gol-derned right I will,” replied Daniel W. Law- 
son promptly. “ You see, Mr. Landlord,” he continued, 
“ I have come out West to kinder grow up with the 
country, and when I find a patch of land that suits me, 
I’ll just stop and plant.” 

“Oh, you are a land-buyer?” said mine host, as he 
rubbed his hands together as much as to say, “ I thought 
I could uncork him.” “Are you any relation to Lawyer 
Lawson ?” 

“There is no Lawson that is a lawyer,” said Daniel 
Webster, “ that I know of, around Pike Corners.” 

“No, I mean the Lawyer Lawson of this place ; right 
over there is his office.” As he said this he gave his 
head a jerk toward the door and the street. 

“Well, if I be, I don’t know it,” replied the country 
greeny, considerably interested. 

Just at this moment, and before mine host could 
reply, a shrill voice came squeaking through the narrow 
hall from the kitchen, calling for “ Reub, oh, Reub, 
Reuben Thompson, why don’t you come here when I 
call you ?” 

Before the last notes had died away, the landlord 
hurried out of the office, wearing a very apprehensive 
look. 

As soon as he was gone, Daniel Webster Lawson 
brightened up, and a twinkle came into his eyes that 
reminded one strongly of Burt Lester, the detective. He 
hastily opened the ledger and scanned the registered 
names. A smile parted his lips as he read the name of 
Edith Brinkerhoff. A moment later his face grew 
clouded, for it evidently was not written in a feminine 
hand, but scrawled down in a miserable, large, sprawly 
style. Just above it was a similar hand-writing, and the 
name it recorded was C. McGuffin. 

“Yes,” said Burt (for it was no other), “both names 
were written by one person, but who was that person ? 
Where was C. McGuffin from ?” There was nothing on 
the register to indicate the writer’s residence. Then the 
date showed three days later than the time of Edith’s 
leaving Hampton. 


DANIEL WEBSTER LAWSON. 


177 


He closed the ledger, and strolled lazily across the 
room, and peered out of the window. Night was closing 
in, and the uncheerful, sounding March wind was grow- 
ing louder and louder, as the temperature of coming 
night grew lower and lower. 

Looking across the street, in the direction that Reu- 
ben Thompson, the landlord, had indicated with his nod- 
ding head, he saw a time-worn, squeaking sign swinging 
over an entrance that led up a flight of stairs. The 
name, “ James Lawson, Attorney-at-Law,” was printed 
in colors that once, no doubt, were gay, but they were 
now sadiy blurred over, and destitute of any look of 
freshness. 

Burt’s first impulse was to cross over and give the 
lawyer a call, but on second thought he concluded not to 
venture into that gentleman’s presence until he had had 
sufficient time to study over the discoveries made in 
the ledger. 

The night came on, and Burt early sought his bed 
for a much-needed rest, as he had been constantly on the 
go for several days and nights past. 

After breakfast the following morning, Daniel Web- 
ster Lawson produced from his pocket a clay pipe and a 
regular “ down- East ” bag of tobacco, and proceeded to 
have a morning smoke. He thus busied himself until 
he saw a gentleman come down the street and turn into 
the stairway. The pipe was put away, and the smoker, 
rising, proceeded to stretch and yawn in a very natural 
manner, and joined in the common regret that it was 
such a “ ’tarnal cold, blustry day.” The snow was try- 
ing to come straight down, and it succeeded very well, 
it seemed, until the flakes got down near the house tops, 
and then the encircling belt of March wind beat and drove 
the falling snow in a slanting direction, and woe to the 
man who attempted to face the pelting particles unpro- 
tected. 

Lawson stood looking out of the hotel window until 
he discovered a smoke belching forth in a black cloud 
from the lawyer’s office-chimney, and then he quietly 
strode across the street, ascended the dark stairway, and 
tapped at the door, which was immediately opened by a 
8 * 


178 


DANIEL WEBSTER LAWSON. 


very short, fat, close-mouthed, small-eyed, beardless 
man. 

“Come in,” were the only words of welcome that fell 
on Daniel Webster’s ears. 

The invitation was accepted by the newcomer, but 
he seemed very awkward and much embarrassed, and 
was at a terrible loss to know what to do with his 
hands. 

“ Is this a lawyer’s office ?” 

“Yes, sir, and I am the lawyer. What do you 
want ?” 

As soon as the lawyer said this he closed his mouth 
tight together again, as if he held some mighty secret, 
which he was fearful would escape him. The attorney’s 
visitor took a chair unasked, and fumbled his hat with 
apparently very nervous hands, and replied : “ My name, 
sir, is Daniel Webster Lawson, and I see the sign says 
Lawson was the lawyer’s name, and it looked so humlike 
I thought I’d just step in. I’m boardin’ at the hotel.” 
As he said this he jerked his thumb over his shoulder 
toward the building across the street. 

“ Where are you from ?” asked the lawyer. 

“ Pike Corners, York State,” was the reply. 

“A Yankee,” said the lawyer, “from the rocky hills 
of New York ?” 

“ I guess I be, and by darn, you hit the nail on 
the center when you said rocky hills, you did, swow.” 

“What can I do for you?” asked the attorney, very 
brusquely, not seeming to appreciate the compliment 
that the new-comer had paid to his astuteness. 

“ Well,” said Daniel Webster, as he pushed his hat 
back and scratched his head in a brown study for a mo- 
ment, “I don’t kind-a like to see this here snow, as I 
wanted to look at some land.” 

“ Oh, you are out West to look up the country ?” ob- 
served the lawyer, “ and purchase a home ?” 

“That’s what I be,” replied Daniel Webster, “that’s 
just what I am here for, though I won’t git my stuff so I 
can pay for any land till July next.” 

“ That will make no difference, Mr. Lawson, I assure 
you,” said the attorney, “and, by-the-way, while I don’t 


DANIEL WEBSTER LAWSON. 179 

do very much in that line, yet I have a number of 
choice farms for sale, also some wild land that has 
just recently, very recently, indeed, been put on the 
market.” 

Burt thought that the old man was thawing out in 
fine shape, and for a full hour they conversed about 
western lands, the lawyer doing most of the talking, 
drawing bright pictures of the grand developments 
of the century. He then planned a trip into the country 
the first pleasant day, to which the detective readily as- 
sented. 

Burt gazed at the long shelf full of books, as if it was 
all a new and novel sight to him. Finally, he said : “ I 
wish I was a lawyer, I do, by gosh. You bet I wouln’t 
work another condemned day if I had the knowledge 
that’s in them books.” 

“You, like all boys from the rural districts,” said Mr. 
Lawson, “ have a very foolish notion in your head that a 
lawyer doesn’t have to work, but if you had the experi- 
ence that I have had, you would know how sadly you 
misjudge the profession. If you have any desire to study 
law,” he continued, “ I assure you my office and library 
are at your disposal.” 

“Well, by dad, Mr. Lawson,” said Burt, “you talk 
fair enough, you do, I swan, and if I should find a farm 
that suits me, I will just avail myself of your offer and 
study law till my money comes.” 

“Very well,” replied the attorney, “make my office 
your headquarters ; I want you to feel right at home.” 

In the course of a few days Burt found a farm that 
just suited him, and at once settled down to the study of 
law. He wrote Harry Baine every evening and received 
word from Hampton every day. 

Burt was very prudent, and was getting on swim- 
mingly with Lawyer Lawson. 

Thus matters had rested for a full month, when the 
old stage came into Milford one afternoon in the first 
days of April, bringing a letter from Hampton which 
read as follows : — 


180 


THE LOST TRAIL. 


“ Dear Burt : 

“ A strange man got off midnight train here last 
night. Willets left the telegraph office in charge of 
Lin Brinkerhoff, and visited with the stranger till morn- 
ing. They walked to the church-yard, and I followed 
them. Then they turned away into the woods, and in 
spite of all I could do, they gave me the slip for a. full 
hour. They act like strangers to each other around the 
hotel. I am ready to follow if they go away. I will 
drop a note in the post-office here to L. Burton if I 
should have to leave suddenly. Better come at once. 

“ Hurriedly yours, 

“ Harry Baine.” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE LOST TRAIL. 

B URT LESTER sat in his room at the little cramped 
boarding-house at Milford, in a deep brown study 
over Harry Baine’s letter. The afternoon was 
wearing the April day into the shades of evening. 

A gentle shower had fallen and bathed the earth in 
its loving caress : one of those caresses that start the 
sleeping to throw off the stupor of repose. So, also, did 
the April shower start the mother earth from her win- 
ter’s slumber, and caused the first dawn of waking. An 
hour had now gone by since the letter was received, and 
still Burt sat at a writing desk in his room, just where 
he had seated himself when the seal of Harry’s letter was 
broken. Here was another unlooked for, unexpected 
event, that seemed to contradict the whole theory that 
he had woven during the last month. 

What had he learned in the past month ? Simply 
nothing. 

True his suspicions had been strengthened by Lawyer 
Lawson’s reticence on the subject of Edith Brinkerhoff, 
and then there had been letters received bearing the 


THE LOST TRAIL. 


181 


Hampton postmark, and others bearing the word “ Mills” 
for a postmark, whose contents Burt Lester would have 
given his head almost to have glanced at. He proposed, 
however, to see these letters and still keep his head, al- 
though he would run the risk of losing it, perhaps, in 
seeing them. 

But here was Harry Baine’s letter, and that knocked 
all his own plans in the head. At last he rose from the 
desk and walked the room for a few moments, then halted 
before an old-fashioned mirror, and, after scanning the 
“ gentleman in the glass ” for a moment, said : “ You are 
a line-looking detective. You ought to have a chromo 
for shrewd work. What did you say, sir? Kittie Pem- 
brooke ? Well, by the eternal heavens above, you refer 
to that young lady again, and I’ll spoil your face for you. 
Do you hear that, sir ? Handsome ? Well, who said she 
wasn’t handsome? What! In love? That, sir, is an 
infamous lie ! Burt Lester, I am ashamed of you ! I 
am, by heavens, I am. What put all this foolishness 
into your head? What do you care for any woman, but 
your old mother ? Nothing. That’s spoken like a man, 
sir ? What are you in love with, any way ? The profes- 
sion ? Ah ! the profession, that is better ; now you are 
beginning to look and talk naturally. I am after you, 
old boy, by the powers above I am, and I’ll give you 
trouble if you go tumbling head over heels in love with 
every pretty face you see. Now, mind sir, mind what I tell 
you!” With this he strode on past the glass, and, throwing 
aside his coat, proceeded to bathe his hands and face. 
Then with a coarse linen towel he wiped them dry, and 
rubbed a glow and look of health into his flushed 
featu res. 

That evening he called on Lawyer Lawson, and told 
that gentleman, in his usual bashful and awkward way, 
that he wished to take a walk across the country to a 
town some fifty miles away, just to see the farming 
lands. Then the exercise of walking would do him 
good, for he was not accustomed to “ settin’ round so 
much.” 

“Very well,” the lawyer replied. “How long will 
you be gone ?” 


182 


THE LOST TRAIL. 


“ Oh, not more’n a month, I reckon,” replied Burt. 

“ A month !” exclaimed the lawyer ; “ that is a good 
long time.” 

“ Well,” replied Burt, “ maybe I won’t be gone more’n 
middlin’ long.” 

“ All right,” replied the attorney, smiling and shak- 
ing hands with Burt as he turned back into his house, 
thinking what a green country boy Daniel Webster 
Lawson was, anyway. 

Early the next morning Burt settled his bill with 
Reub. Thompson, the hotel-keeper, and, with satchel on 
his back, started out across the country, walking briskly 
along for about a mile, until he came to a bridge over 
which the highway led him. Here he stopped, and sit- 
ting down by the roadside, waited until a team and car- 
riage not far back came up with him. 

“ Hello, young man,” said Burt to the driver, a lad in 
the last part of his teens, “ where are you going with 
that team ?” 

“ Down home,” was the reply. 

“ Where is that ?” queried Burt. 

“ About a quarter of a mile from Here,” the youth re- 
plied. 

“How far is it to Jacksontown ?” 

“ About seven miles,” the boy answered. 

“ How much will you charge to take me over 
there ?” 

“ What will you give ?” was the evasive reply. 

“ I’ll give you three dollars,” answered Burt. 

“I’ll go for three and a half,” said the boy, mentally 
soliloquizing, that if the stranger would offer three dol- 
lars, he surely would pay a half dollar more. 

Burt read the business tact of his young friend, and 
replied: “ Three dollars and a half! No, I’ll not give 
but just even two dollars, and I call that a big price.” 

“Two dollars !” ejaculated the boy, “why you said 
three a moment ago.” 

“I guess you didn’t understand me,” said Burt; 
“two dollars is my offer.” 

“Two dollars,” said the boy thoughtfully, and mus- 
ing. “ I believe he will raise it a half dollar just for the 


THE LOST TRAIL. 


183 


asking,” so turning to Burt he said : “ I’ll take you down 
for two dollars and a half.” 

“All right,” said Burt, “it is more money than I 
ought to pay, but your team looks fresh. You remind 
me of a young man I once knew who could drive over 
more miles in an hour’s time than any chap I ever did 
see.” 

This nettled the boy, and he quickly replied : “Well, 
stranger, you never saw me drive yet. I have got to go. 
down home and tell them where I am going, and then I 
will be right back, and away we will go.” As he said 
this he touched his spirited animals with his whip, and 
away they pranced. 

Burt descended at the side of the bridge, stepped 
under the over-hanging wing, and was out of sight of 
any one who might pass along. His old satchel was 
then thrown open and a new toilet and make-up made. 
When he emerged soon after he looked like another 
being. His long mutton-chop whiskers, English coat 
and hat, together with an eye-glass suspended from the 
lapel of his vest, gave him quite a foreign look, so much 
so indeed that the boy, when he came back with his 
spirited horses, asked the distinguished looking gentle- 
man “ If he had seen anything of a country-looking 
chap ?” 

“Yes, sir,” said the strange gentleman, “he was here 
not more than ten minutes ago. Are you the young 
gentleman that was to drive him to Jacksonville for two 
dollars ?” 

“No, I agreed to take him for two dollars and a 
half,” replied the boy. 

“The ragged rascal !” ejaculated the distinguished 
looking gentleman ; “ he told me two dollars, he did, for 
a fact, you know.” 

As the speaker said this he approached and climbed 
in the vehicle, and as he did so, said : “ Drive on to 
Jacksontown and I will give you the two and a half 
dollars.” 

“ Well, where is the other man ?” asked the lad. 

“Why, he didn’t want to go — he was just speaking 


184 


THE LOST TRAIL. 


to you for me. I fell in company with the bloody chap 
just before reaching the bridge, about half an hour be- 
fore you came along, and told him of my desire to hire 
a conveyance to Jacksontown. While you were con- 
versing with him I was down at the water’s edge under 
the bridge, standing on that large flat rock, bathing my 
face and hands. I tell you, young fellow, those horses 
are goers, aren’t they ?” 

“ I should say so,” said the boy, looking around tri- 
umphantly at his companion. Then remembering the 
country-looking chap again, he said, “ I wonder who 
that chap was, any way, and where he went to ?” 

“ He told me,” replied the detective, “ that his name was 
Daniel Webster Lawson, and that he had been studying 
law with an attorney by the name of Lawson, in the lit- 
tle village of Milford, which is near here, and that he 
was going across the country afoot, to a town about fifty 
miles south.” 

“ Oh, yes,” said the boy. “ I know now. I have 
seen him lots of times during the last month, up at Mil- 
ford.” 

Thus the conversation went on until Jacksontown 
was reached, and less than half an hour later found Burt 
Lester seated in the Hampton-bound train, looking very 
foreign and distinguished. 

When Hampton was reached, he was still made upas 
an English “ swell.” He took himself to the hotel, and 
after carefully adjusting his eye-glass, proceeded to 
register as “ Leslie Burton, Montreal, Canada,” in a large 
round hand. He then went in to dinner, but could see 
nothing of Harry Baine. 

During the afternoon he sauntered down to the post- 
office and asked for Mr. L. Burton’s mail. The post- 
master looked through the “ B ” box and found a single 
letter. After the distinguished foreign gentleman had 
carefully placed the letter in his pocket, he very leisurely 
walked back to the hotel, and when the privacy of his 
room was reached, he hastily broke the seal of the let- 
ter and eagerly perused its contents, which were as fol- 
lows : 


THE' LOST TRAIL. 


185 


“ Dear Burt : 

“ I am writing this on the cars, and the stranger that 
visited with Willets is just across the car aisle, looking 
out of the window. He registered as T. Richards, at 
Hampton. Fie didn’t say where he was from, neither 
did he buy a ticket, but paid his fare to the conduc- 
tor. I don’t knoAV where he is going, but I am going 
to stay with him if possible. I will write you every 
day. 

“Fraternally yours, 

“ Harry Baine.” 

Of course Burt could do nothing but report his moves 
to Lawyer Westover, and patiently wait for further word 
from Harry. In the meantime he kept a strict watch on 
both Willets and Lin. 

While he is thus waiting, let us take an aerial flight 
to the Union depot building in Cinapolis, as the east 
bound train draws up at the platform. 

Among the crowd of passengers who are pouring out 
of the cars in a regular stream, is Harry Baine, and he is 
looking closely after a fellow passenger who has just 
alighted, and as the stranger comes out where the light 
is better, we discover that he is no stranger, but an old 
acquaintance, Richard Tobias, little Pen’s sworn friend. 

As he moves away along the street, we see a muffled 
figure dart out of a dark alley and follow him, and close 
behind comes Harry Baine. He has his eye on Richard 
Tobias, and pays no attention to the stooped old man 
« who is just ahead of him and just behind Richard. On, 
on, block after block, they go. 

From the time Richard left the train he has not so 
much as glanced over his shoulder. Not so with the 
bent-over figure following. He watched Richard in 
front, and over his shoulder watched the shadowing figure 
of Harry Baine. If the old man’s thoughts were re- 
duced to words they would run like this: “That is my 
man, Dick Dare, ahead, or old Hinchey don’t know ; but 
who I wonder can this be behind ? Surely, whoever it 
is, it is not me but Dick that he is shadowing. The wind 
blows me ill to-night unless I give this shadow the slip. 


186 


THE LOST TKAIL. 


For over a month now I have been hunting that religious 
crank, Dick Dare, and when I find him I will also find 
the nice young man, Pen Pembrooke.” 

Thus the three glided along the deserted streets of 
Cinapolis, and had they been spirits of the departed, 
they could not have moved along with more deathlike 
stillness. Harry began to grow impatient, and imprud- 
ently commenced gaining on those ahead of him. By 
this time they were in the very heart of the city, and old 
Hinchey concluded that the chase was growing too warm. 
He determined to try a little game of stratagem on who- 
ever it was that was shadowing. 

Accordingly, when they came to a certain corner, 
where by some ill-luck the street lamp was not burning, 
and Richard turned down a dark unlighted street that 
led away from the main business avenue, old Hinchey 
walked very briskly in directly the opposite direction. 
Harry Baine followed him blindly, and quickened his 
pace, fearful that his prey would give him the slip at the 
next dark place. Several blocks were hurried by in this 
way, and, in the meantime Richard continued his home- 
ward walk, wholly unconscious that old Hinchey and a 
detective had been following him,* and also ignorant that 
the old ’possum, Hinchey, had done him good service by 
decoying the detective off his track. Presently the old 
’possum came round a corner and stood in the full glare 
of a street lamp. He stopped, determined to then and 
there shake the shadower, whoever he was. 

Round the corner Harry came almost on the run, but 
the only living thing that ’met his eager searching look 
was an old man seated on the door-sill of a shop. The 
light fell full on the old man’s figure, and Harry saw at 
a glance that he seemed almost helpless with infirmity. 

“ Hello, old man,” said Harry, “ did you see anyone 
hurrying past here just now ?” 

“ Yes, sir,” replied the old villian, in a tremulous 
voice; “a man came ’round the same corner you did, 
and then run like all mad was after him, across the 
street and down that alley over the way.” 

“ Did you know the face ? Had you ever seen it 
before ?” 


THE LOST TRAIL. 187 

“ No, mister, didn’t know the face, never seen it 
afore. The man looked sort o’ frightened and I thought 
maybe he might be running away from somebody.” 

“That is just what he is a doing,” replied Harry, very 
impatiently, while he took from his pocket a silk hand- 
kerchief, and brushed the perspiration from his flushed 
face. Then throwing the old man a piece of money, 
Harry Baine rushed on across the street, and turned 
down the dark unlit alley, madly in search of that which 
he had wholly lost track of. 

He had no sooner started hurriedly across the street, 
then old Hinchey rose to his feet, as nimble and silent as 
a panther, and with much the same destructive feelings, 
stole quickly back around the corner of the building, 
and with great haste retraced his steps to the place where 
he had ceased following Richard ; and then without 
pausing a moment he plunged into the darkness and 
followed down the street in the direction taken by him. 

The April moon came bashfully up at last, climbing 
little by little, until at last it was above the houses and 
walls, above the tall chimneys and lofty church spires of 
Cinapolis. Then, and not until then, did Harry Baine 
turn his steps toward some place of shelter, 

Cinapolis was a city of considerable magnitude, and 
had its share of stately hotels and whole blocks of eating- 
houses, boarding-houses, restaurants, etc. One of the 
most popular hotels in the city was “ The Arlington.” 
It was an aged establishment, yec carried a dignity with 
its age that was highly commendable and well worthy of 
imitation. It claimed to be the distinguished house at 
which Henry Clay, Daniel Webster, President Jackson, 
and other lights of less magnitude, stopped, when they 
visited Cinapolis. It also could show you the identical 
room that Anthony Trollop’s mother occupied during 
her sojourn in that city, aud also the bed room in which 
Charles Dickens slept when he made his first visit to 
America. Thus it. had had its literary guests, as well as 
its political heroes. It was to this distinguished hotel 
that Harry Baine wended his way late at night, and 
sought a much-needed rest. 


188 


THE LOST TKAIL. 


It was late the next morning when he woke from his 
slumbers, greatly refreshed. 

A good hot breakfast was served him which fully 
restored his usual happy and contented state of mind. 

Fully? No, not fully, for there lurked a dissatisfied 
and regretful feeling about his poor performance as a 
detective, that kept him from enjoying the greatest com- 
placency of feelings. 

After breakfast he lighted a cigar, and while he 
smoked searched the city directory for the name T. Rich- 
ards, and found no less than four Thos. Richardses ; the 
address of each he penciled down. One was a carpen- 
ter, two were foundrymen, and one a hardware mer- 
chant. Closing the directory, he seated himself at the 
office writing table, and hurriedly wrote a long letter to 
Burt. This done, he engaged a barouche, and set out to 
call on all the Thos. Richards in Cinapolis. The carpen- 
ter and joiner who wore that name was a long, lean sort 
of a man who had the largest feet, Harry thought, he 
ever saw in his life. The detective explained that he was 
looking for a Mr. Richards, and had found several 
Thos. Richards in the directory, and his only way to find 
the one he was looking for was to call on all of them. 
This was a satisfactory explanation to the carpenter, and 
soon after he drove on to the foundry. Just above the 
place where the barouche halted was a window, and out 
of that window a pair of eyes was looking. The owner 
of the eyes was seated at a writing desk, attending to a 
heap of correspondence. 

He saw a man alight whom he recognized as Mr. 
Gibbs, of Hampton ; at least that was the name Mr. Wil- 
lets knew him by. The foundry policeman met Mr. 
Gibbs, and they had a short conversation ; then they 
walked away together, and entered the foundry. A half 
hour went by before Mr. Gibbs returned to the barouche, 
and when he did it was hastily driven away, no doubt to 
the store of the hardware merchant. A little later, as 
the policeman was walking near the office, Richard 
motioned him to enter, and asked him, “ Who was that 
gentleman that had just went through the foundry with 
him ?” 


THE LOST TRAIL. 


189 


“That, sir,” said the policeman, in a low voice, “was 
one of my kind, a detective, who is hunting up all 
the Thos. Richards in the city. I told him, sir, to come 
and see you, and perhaps you could tell him more about 
it than I could, but he said he was in a very great hurry, 
and hadn^t time.” 

“Is there anyone by that name in the foundry?” 
asked Richard. 

“Oh yes, sir,” replied the man with brass buttons, 
“there are two young men by that name ; they are 
cousins, but neither of them is the Richards that the de- 
tective is looking for.” 

“ That will do,” said Richard, and he picked up his 
pen and continued his work. 

That evening as he returned home, he dropped a let- 
ter, a big fat one, in the mail box, and it was directed to 
Edward Willets, Esq. 

When he arrived at Mr. Dorris’s he found the cloth 
already spread and tea in waiting for his coming. Soon 
after the family were seated at the table, enjoying the 
witticisms of handsome Emily Willets and the wise say- 
ings of little Pen, who seemed to have grown much older 
in the last month, and was more delicate than ever. Mr. 
Dorris took his leave and started for the foundry to 
work, and little Pen sat down close to Richard’s knee, 
while he listened to what the latter had to tell him of 
Hampton. 

4 Did you see my little sister Bertha?” asked Pen. 

“ Yes, I stopped at your aunt Zurilda’s to get a drink 
of water, and got a good look at the little darling, and I 
tell you, my boy, I felt just like taking the child in my 
arms and carrying her away.” 

“Where else did you go?” said Pen, while he brushed 
the gathering tears away from his eyes. 

“Well, Mr. Willets and I took a walk, and went by 
the graveyard, and I could not pass it without going in 
and standing again right where I did that night when 
you prayed over your mother’s grave. From there we 
walked out into the woods and visited the old cave where 
you ate your first lunch of my preparing. After that we 
came out into the road, just where we did that night 


190 


THE LOST TRAIL. 


when we left Hampton, and I showed Mr. Willets where 
we stopped to listen to his speech.” 

“ What is that you are saying about my brother ?” 
asked Emily, as she came into the room. 

“ Nothing that was to his discredit, I assure you,” 
replied Richard, good-naturedly. 

“ Emily, you promised to sing for me to-night,” said 
Pen. 

“ I know I did, and I have just come in to keep my 
word.” Saying this she seated herself at the piano, and 
after running her fingers lightly over the prelude, sang 
in plaintive strains and soft-toned melody these words : 

“ Oh, no ! I never will grow old, 

Though years on years roll by, 

And silver o’er my dark brown hair, 

And forever dim my laughing eye.” 

She seemed to throw her whole soul into the beauti- 
ful words, which possibly were prophetic of her own 
future. Had she told her thoughts they would have been 
of one whom she supposed far away, but who in reality 
was in hearing distance of her singing. Yes, Harry 
Baine was actually walking along the opposite side of 
the street to feast his ears, if an opportunity presented 
itself, on Emily Willets’ enchanting music. 

Pen thanked Emily for the song, and soon after he 
and Richard were in their own room. The little Bible 
was brought forward and a chapter read, arid then Pen 
in earnest supplication returned thanks to the great Law 
Giver of the universe for Richard's safe return, and his 
little sister’s health, and for all the blessings of life. 
Then he prayed feelingly for fallen humanity, and asked 
for strength to be given him to let his feeble light so 
shine in the world, that others, seeing it, might be con- 
strained to turn their faces heavenward, and make the 
God of Isaac and Jacob their God also, and embrace the 
Divine principles of Christianity. After the prayer was 
finished, Richard was thoughtful for a long time. 

“ What is it, Richard, that you are thinking so earn- 
estly about ?” 


THE LOST TRAIL. 


191 


“ Are you sure, Pen,” said Richard, “ that there is a 
God, and that we will live again after death in another 
world ?” 

“ Richard,” said Pen, as he came to his friend’s side 
and looked deep into his eyes, “ you surely do not doubt. 
You do not, you cannot think or believe, dear Richard, 
that this earth is man’s only abiding place? No, no ! 
you cannot believe that life is but a bubble, an empty 
bubble, that has its existence by chance and is permitted 
to float a few days at most on the cheerless waves of 
eternity and then vanish and sink into nothingness. No, 
Richard, you cannot believe that ; else why do we have 
such glorious aspirations, which come leaping forth in- 
voluntarily from the soul of man, refusing to be satis- 
fied, but continually seeking and clamoring for a higher 
existence beyond the clouds. Yes, Richard, I do believe 
with all my heart that there is a great and allwise God 
who rules the universe, and that after death there is a 
realm, a bright and heavenly realm, where the burnished 
colors of the rainbow never, never fade away, where 
there is no night, and where the spirits of our dead fath- 
ers and our dead mothers live on and on in eternal hap- 
piness, and that they will gather round us when we cross 
over, and welcome us to our final home.” 

“ There is a Scotch ballad,” said Richard, as he 
brushed away the falling tears, “that is called ‘ My 
Ain Countrie.’ The lines I remember run like this : 

“ ‘ He is faithfu’ that hath promised that some gladsome day the 
King 

He’ll keep his tryst wi’ me, at what hour I dinna ken ; 

But he bids me still to wait, an’ ready aye to be, 

To gang at any moment to my ain countrie. 

So I’m watching aye, an’ singing o’ my hame as I wait, 

For the soun’ing o’ his footfa’ this side the gowden gate, 

God gie his grace to ilk ane wha listens noo to me, 

That we a’ may gang in gladness to our ain countrie.’ ” 

“That was a tender little melody my sister ’Rilla 
used to sing to me, for it was a favorite of mine ; and 
your earnest words to night, my dear Pen, about the 
world beyond, makes me feel as I used to when my sister 


192 


THE DETECTIVE MEETS MCGUFFIN, 


sang that Scotch ballad, that somewhere, someplace, 
beyond the doubts and darkness, beyond the errors of 
philosophy and Voltaireism, beyond the skepticisms and 
dissentings of this life, there must be a country where 
the spirits of the children of men shall meet again. 

“Yes, my dear Pen, I do believe in Almighty God, — 
I believe the Scripture that you read to-night where it 
says : 

“‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord. 
He that believeth on Me, though he were dead, yet shall 
he live, and whosoever liveth and believeth in Me shall 
never die.” ' 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE DETECTIVE MEETS MCGUFFIN. 

O LD Hinchey, as we have already seen, hastily re- 
traced his steps after misleading Harry Baine, 
and followed after Richard Tobias. 
Notwithstanding he hurried along the deserted streets 
with remarkable speed for an old man, yet he was wholly 
unable to come up with him, and after an hour’s fruitless 
search he returned to the miserable attic quarters from 
which Richard and little Pen had run away. 

When he climbed the rickety old stairs that were 
growing more feeble every day, he knocked for admis- 
sion, not a loud boisterous knock but a soft gentle rap, 
for old Hinchey was a very considerate being, and did 
not wish to awaken any of his neighbors or attract the 
attention of any of the police force, should they happen 
to be passing that way. 

Possibly his soft knocking was from prudential 
reasons ; but had you asked him, the falsehood that was 
ever trembling on his lips would have replied, “ Con- 
sideration for my good neighbors who are asleep.” 

The door slowly opened, and the old man passed in. 
Then it hastily closed, and had you listened attentively 
you would have heard the clank of the fastenings. 


THE DETECTIVE MEETS MCGUFFHST. 198 

The first words that met old Hinchey’s ears, after the 
fastenings of the door were firmly secured, came from a 
broad-chested, full-bearded man with a coarse, gruff 
voice, and, in no pleasant tone, it asked: “Where in 
thunder have you been so late ?” 

As old Hinchey answers, he snuffs the candle and 
causes a better light to illumine the cobwebed rafters. 
By the light thus made we can still see that same un- 
meaning grin, the same old fangs of teeth, the same 
dirty, bristly-bearded countenance, the same untidy, slov- 
enly habit, and frowsy hair hanging shaggily about his 
neck and ears. 

“ Oh, my good brother/’ old Hinchey says, “ I was 
close on the track of the dear young man you came to 
see about.” 

“Did you find him ?”' hastily and impatiently asks 
his companion, who is none other than C. McGuffin, 
Esq, 

“No, but I saw that religious crank, Dick Dare,” 
answered old Hinchey with a hollow, croaking laugh, 
“and when I find him I will find where the young man 
is.” 

All of Hinchey’s laughing and smiling seems to avail 
nothing with McGuffin, for he looks as glum and black 
as a rain cloud. 

“ Well, where is Dare ?” he asked very brusquely. 

“ I will tell you all about it,” replied Hinchey in a 
submissive, fawning tone ; and he at once gave his 
brother a full account of all that had happened that even- 
ing. 

After this the brothers fell to earnest talking and 
planning about their future moves. 

“I tell you, Henry,” McGuffin was saying, “I am 
about through with this sort of life, I am, by thunder I 
am. Tobs is giving me considerable annoyance, or at 
least I imagine he is, and I want to get rid of him. He 
is getting to be devilish independent, and I find myself 
j continually fretting and worrying about him. He has 
received several letters from some person or persons, 
| and i think he knows where this lad Pen is. Now, I 
don’t give a copper about the boy, only he knows too 
9 


194 


THE DETECTIVE MEETS MCGOEFIjS'. 


much to be let run, as is the case with my man Tobs. 
You see, Henry,” continued McGuffin, warming up a lit- 
tle, “ I have my ambitions as well as any other man, and 
one ambition is to go to Congress. 1 have already got 
the ground-work planned, and propose putting the roll- 
ing stock on this fall and sweeping the district, and then 
I’ll be the Hon. C. McGuffin, M. C., from the Second 
District.” 

“ Couldn’t you give me a mail route of some kind?” 
asked old Hinchey, with a cunning twinkle in his 
eye. 

A frown overspread McGuffin’s face, and he answer- 
ed crustily, “ Don’t allude to impossibilities, Henry, but 
confine yourself to sensible talk.” 

Old Hinchey bit his lips, but said nothing. Had his 
thoughts been put in words they would have run some- 
thing like this: “Sensible talk, hey? Well, my dear 
brother, I will make you think it is sensible talk before 
you are the Hon. C. McGuffin, Member of Congress, 
very long. Impossibilities, hey? Well, my ambitious 
brother, you will find it is impossible to a Congressman 
from the Second District and not recognize me as your 
brother, unless you want to pay me handsomely to keep 
shady.” 

All this passed quickly through the old ’possum’s 
mind, although he said nothing, except to exclaim, “Ah, 
what a smart, ambitious, shrewd brother I have got.” 

C. McGuffin in his wicked life, yet laudable ambi- 
tions, had forgotten, as many men do in all the walks of 
life, that “Your nearest kith and friend is a better friend 
to himself than he is to you and so he talked glibly 
on of his possessions, of his many broad acres, his large 
herds of blooded cattle, and his mammoth barn well- 
filled with elegant horses and when he had finished old 
Hinchey, with his best feigned forlorn expression, yet 
with great suavity in his voice, replied : 

“ Ah, my dear brother, you are indeed a smart and a 
wealthy man. You see my home, brother ; it is very 
cheerless and desolate, and in the winter time I almost 
freeze.” 


THE DETECTIVE MEETS MCGUFFHST. 


195 


“ Why don’t you get a suite of rooms at some good 
hotel, and live like somebody ?” asked his brother. 

“ Yes,” old Hinchey responded, “ why don’t I ; simply 
because I can’t afford it. Every dollar I had in the wide 
world was stolen from me by that crank, Dick Dare, and 
I am left in my old age penniless, as you might say.” 

The old man said this so earnestly that McGuffin act- 
ually believed the statement. 

“ I don’t wonder you wish to find this man Dare,” 
said he. 

“You bet your life, I want to find him,” said old 
Hinchey, winking and nodding his head, “ but brother,” 
he continued in a lowered voice, “how much would it 
be worth to you to have Tobs out of the way, also this 
lad Penfield Pembrooke ? Now, my dear rich brother, 
you are talking to one who is your own blood, and who 
is now an old man and very poor. I haven’t any money 
at all — all gone ; be liberal, that’s a dear, good brother.” 

McGuffin did not answer at once, but sat looking 
hard at the sputtering blaze of the candle. His right 
leg was crossed over the left knee, the left arm lay care- 
lessly across his lap, while with his right hand he held 
the bowl of his large briar-root pipe, and ever and anon 
he would remove it from his mouth long enough to puff 
out a cloud of smoke, and then bury the stem in his 
hairy face again. 

Old Hinchey sat leaning forward, resting his elbows 
on either knee, rubbing his greasy hands together, and 
watching with cat-like keenness every expression that 
plays over his brother’s face like fretful clouds. 

Finally the pipe came out of McGuffin’s mouth long 
enough for him to say, “ One thousand dollars.” Then 
he went on smoking again, still looking steadily at the 
candle’s blaze, nor did he take his eyes away from the 
winking light, or seem the least moved when old 
Hinchey exclaimed, in a tone of breath-taking astonish- 
ment : “ A thousand dollars ! only a thousand dollars ! 
Oh, dear ! oh, dear! and such a wicked job, too. No, 
no, my rich brother, I’ll do the job for ten thousand dol- 
lars, and that is cheap — dirt cheap.” 


196 


THE DETECTIVE MEETS MCGUFFIN. 


This last announcement brought the Phenomenal 
McGuflin, Esq., to his senses very quickly. 

He dropped the pipe on the table, started to his feet 
and repeated : “Ten thousand dollars? Never ! never! 
I can do the job for enough less myself, by thunder, I 
can, and I’ll do it, too.” 

“Not very good business, my brother, for a con- 
gressman to be engaged in,” said old Hinchey, with a 
mocking grin. 

“ Look here, Henry,” said McGuffin, almost fiercely, 
“don’t trifle with me. You haven’t forgotten, I hope, 
that you are in my power.” 

“In your power, my brother?” said Hinchey, in his 
blandest voice. 

“Yes,” answered McGuffin, in thundering tones, “in 
my power. Don’t I know that it was you who killed old 
man Macley, Leroy Pembrooke’s father-in-law, and 
wasn’t it you who stole his money ?” 

“I believe you and I divided the spoils of that little 
game,” replied old Hinchey, “ but as to killing the nice 
and respectable old man, I have no remembrance of any 
such work ; though, if I had, you and I would suffer 
equally, as we were working together in all we did — 
were partners, you know, my brother. Maybe you 
think, my brother, that I don’t know enough to keep you 
from going to Congress, or if you were a congressman, 
enough to unseat you and cause an unexpected vacancy 
to occur in the second district. Yes, I know enough to 
confiscate your property and send you to the peniten- 
tiary for a long, long time.” 

As Hinchey made these last remarks, he retreated be- 
hind the old rickety table on which the light was sitting, 
all the time keeping his eyes on those of his brother, not 
knowing but “Greek had at last met Greek.” 

“ I will,” said McGuffin, in a deep, hollow-sounding, 
guttural tone, “give you the ten thousand dollars for 
the job, but,” he added, trying to look with a brother’s 
compassion on his brother, “ I would not give it if you 
had not lost all your possessions.” 

On McGuffin’s saying this, old Hinchey resumed his 
seat, as also did his brother, and for a full hour they con- 


THE DETECTIVE MEETS MCGUFFUNT. 


197 


versed about the general details of the work in hand, each 
brother firmly believing in his own mind that the other 
was the very essence of lying, deceitfulness, and untold 
crime, and when at last they retired to catch a couple of 
hours’ sleep before morning came on, each pretended to 
sleep soundly, each snored most unmercifully, but they 
were in reality both wide awake, and on the defensive. 

Thus whiled away the hours for these brothers, who 
all their lives had followed the ways of ungodliness ; 
each knowing the other to be as unscrupulous as Satan. 
The lamp of brotherly love had long since been extin- 
guished by the remorseless, bony hand of selfish avarice. 
Their consciences were surely seared over “as with a 
hot iron.” How appropriate seems these lines of Robert 
Burns : 

“ Oh, Man ! While in thy early years 
How prodigal of time, 

Mis-spending all thy precious hours, 

Thy glorious youthful prime.’ 

Early the next morning the brothers arose, and not- 
withstanding old Hinchey urged McGuffin very hard to 
remain and breakfast with him, that gentleman was de- 
termined, and bade the old man a very brotherly good 
morning, and betook himself away. 

The rickety stairway cried out piteously enough as 
he hastened down it, and when the solid earth was once 
more reached, he breathed a sigh of relief as he inhaled 
the pure morning air. As he strode on toward the fash- 
ionable Arlington Hotel, he muttered to himself, “ My 
brother is a devil, and every board in that creaking old 
stairway cries out as if they were his imps.” 

On reaching the Arlington House he took up the pen, 
and in a large bold hand registered, C. McGuffin, Mills, 
Indiana. He scrutinized what he termed his fine look- 
ing signature for a moment, and then looking up at the 
clerk, asked in a pompous voice : “ Got a good room for 
me ?” 

“We have no other kind of rooms, sir, at the Arling- 
ton,” replied the clerk, with a very courteous bow, and 
then without giving the Phenomenal McGuffin time to 


198 


THE DETECTIVE MEETS MCGUFFIN. 


answer, he added, “ Would you like to be shown to your 
room at once, or would you prefer having your break- 
fast first ?” 

“ I’ll breakfast first,” was McGuffin’s crisp reply. 

Soon after he was enjoying one of those rare steam- 
ing hot breakfasts for which the Arlington to this day is 
proverbial, and then sought his room to sleep. He was 
used to night work and day sleeping, at intervals, as we 
have seen heretofore. 

Soon he was in a deep sleep, from which he did not 
wake until late that evening. When he did awake, he 
rang for the bell-boy, and ordered his supper sent to his 
room, with a bottle of porter at the side. 

This order was carefully obeyed, and McGuffin ate 
his supper and drank his porter, and felt that this would 
be his style of living when he lived in Washington and 
was known the nation over as the “ Honorable” from 
the Second District. 

The next morning he rose from his bed with not the 
clearest head in the world, and descended to the break- 
fast room. 

He had no sooner taken his seat, than Harry Baine 
was shown a seat at the same table. As the two con- 
fronted each other they bowed and passed the time of 
day, as strangers usually do when they meet in like man- 
ner, having a table to themselves. 

“Now,” thought McGuffin, “ perhaps this is a repor- 
ter for some political paper, and perhaps I had better 
cultivate his acquaintance.” 

Harry, on his side of the table, was thinking to him- 
self, “ Perhaps this is McGuffin. His signature on the 
register looks very much as if just such a looking man 
had written it.” 

McGuffin was the first to speak. 

“A fine April morning,” said he. 

“ Yes, indeed,” replied Harry, “ it is a beautiful spring 
morning.’* 

“ Excuse me,” said McGuffin with affected suavity 
of manner, “ but may I inquire your name?” 

“Certainly,” replied Harry, with open frankness; 
“ my name is Harry Gibbs.” 


THE DETECTIVE MEETS MCGCFEIH. 


199 


“ Ah, thank you, sir,” said McGuffin, wiping his 
bearded face with his silk handkerchief, “the reason I 
asked was that you reminded me of a schoolmate of 
mine when I was a boy. His name was Baine — Steve 
Baine, considerable older than myself, but then we were 
schoolmates for a short time, nevertheless.” 

To say that Harry was surprised would hardly express 
it, but he determined to be a very voluminous listener 
and rather a deft talker, and when he did talk, to say 
nothing. While he was trying to think just what he 
ought to say, McGuffin spoke again and said : “ Mr. 
Gibbs, will you join me in drinking this bottle of wine? 
C. McGuffin is my name, from the Second Congressional 
District.” 

“ Ah, certainly, sir,” said Harry, “ I am glad to meet 
you,” and he meant every word of it. “From the Second 
Congressional District? Haven’t I heard your name 
mentioned in connection with Congressional affairs ?” 

“Not so loud, if you please,” said McGuffin, coloring 
to his very ears with pleasure, for this was his weakest 
of weak points. “Yes, sir, Mr. Gibbs, some of my 
friends are determined and won’t take no for an answer 
—they say I have got to be a candidate this fall. Per- 
sonally, Mr. Gibbs, I would much prefer the peaceful 
quiet of my country home, where I can have the cheer- 
ing society of my wife and children about me, but I have 
at last given in to the earnest entreaties of many friends, 
and will no doubt be a candidate before the coming 
Congressional convention.” 

“Your political faith,” said Harry, “is — ” 

“ Is the pure and unadulterated old Jacksonian Democ- 
racy,” interrupted the Phenomenal McGuffin. 

“Certainly, certainly,” said Harry, “but what I was 
about to observe was, that your political faith is worthy 
of just such retiring men, Mr. McGuffin, as you are ; — 
men who do not seek the office, but reluctantly consent 
to what seemingly is inevitable. So far as your political 
creed is concerned, I assure you it is well known here 
among the editorial fraternity. Your fame, Mr. McGuf- 
fin, has preceded you.” 

Here they good naturedly drank another “bumper” 


200 


THE DETECTIVE MEETS MCGUFFIN. 


to McGuffin’s seeming embarrassment, and Harry Gibbs’s 
seeming frankness. 

When the glasses were again set down, the Phenom- 
enal said : “ Excuse me, Mr. Gibbs, but if my suspicions 
are correct you are connected with the press?” 

“Your suspicions, Mr. Guffin, are correct. I am on 
the editorial department of The Herald." 

“ Give us your hand,” said McGuffin, with enthusiasm, 
“you are just the one person above all others that I 
wanted to see.” 

“ Harry extended his hand and thought to himself, 
“Old man, your sentiments and mine are precisely the 
same.” 

After breakfast was over, and they had returned to 
the office room, McGuffin called for cigars. The clerk 
with his usual courtesy set out a box of Havanas. 

“ Them your best?” asked McGuffin brusquely. 

“ Those are good ten-cent goods, sir,” said the clerk, 
“but we have higher priced cigars. These,” said he, 
“are two for a quarter, and these,” he continued setting 
out still another box “are twenty-five cents straight.” 

“ That’s what I want,” said the Phenomenal, “that’s 
my kind of smoking. Here, Mr. Gibbs, take charge of 
this half-dozen cigars, and I will stow the other half- 
dozen away. There are your three dollars, sir. Now, 
Gibbs, let’s get out here by ourselves and have a com- 
fortable, after-breakfast smoke.” 

As they walked away Harry said : “ I tell you, Mr. 
McGuffin, you have the regular old politician swing, you 
have, by George.” 

“ Oh, I have seen some of the world in my day,” re- 
plied the Phenomenal, boastfully, “ and you bet your 
life I always see the easy side of it. I eat the best, drink 
the best and smoke the best, at home or abroad. Now, 
Mr. Gibbs, to business. I want to give you a sort of a 
biography of myself, and I want it written up in The 
Herald in big shape, — a regular political boomer — a 
screecher sort of an article. I have the collateral to pay 
for it, and don’t you doubt it.” As he made this last re- 
mark he brought his heavy big hand down in a bullying 
way on his fat purse, as much as to say, “Damme, there 


THE DETECTIVE MEETS MCGIJFFIH. 


201 


is no limit to the power of money, and C. McGuffin 
knows it, you bet/’ 

“ I fully understand you, sir,” said Harry, nodding 
and winking in a wise fashion. “ I, sir, am the man who 
wrote up the Hon. Mr. Henlish, and you know what a 
boom it gave him. I also wrote up the Hon. Mr. Pen- 
drix, and as you might say, made him what he is. I never 
will forget my first interview with the Hon. Mr. Hen- 
lish. We were sitting right here, just about where we 
are sitting now. He only had a reputation, at that time, 
of fleecing the poor. In fact, his reputation rested on 
the wrecks of financial ruin, that followed in his wake 
as naturally as blown-down trees, flattened grasses and 
demolished buildings follow in the hurricane’s track. 
But he had money. That tells the story. You are a 
shrewd, far-seeing business man, Mr. McGuffin, and un- 
derstand the ‘ways and means.’ Now, come to my room 
and give me the facts which I will need, in order to give 
you a booming send-off.” 

To say that McGuffin felt flattered to be thus invited 
to the room of the political editor of The Herald , would 
not express his elated feelings. 

He chuckled as he followed Harry up a flight of 
stairs, and soliloquized to himself that the twenty-five 
cent cigar investment was already paying a handsome 
dividend. 

“ Now,” said Harry, after they had reached his room 
and the door had been closed, “ I am like a physician — 
I want to know everything about your past life. The 
worst, the very worst, as well as the best, the very best. 
Everything that is good and in your favor I put down in 
this book, and everything that’s against you I put down 
in this other dark-colored book. The reasons for this, 
are many, and I presume, to a man of your keenness 
self evident. Whenever there is a charge made against 
you by the opposition, we turn to your record, and if 
we find the charge is substantially true, why we treat it 
with contempt and homeopathic doses of derision ; but 
if we find the charge to be false, then we court investi- 
gation, and pour into the opposition the strongest allo- 
9 * 


202 


THE DETECTIVE MEETS MCGUFFIN. 


pathic, double-strength doses that can be found in the 
market.” 

“ I see,” said McGuffin, as he scratched his head in a 
deep brown study. 

His answers came slowly, and when he got to where 
his brother Henry, old Hinchey, was sent to the peni- 
tentiary when a young man, he stopped altogether. He 
could not make up his mind to tell it, nor did he. Fin- 
ally he said in a half desperate way, “Look here, Mr. 
Gibbs, I don’t like this, by thunder, I don’t. Now, how 
do I know that you are the political editor of The Her- 
ald, or any other paper? Damme, I dislike most wretch- 
edly to give myself away so completely, unless I know 
for certain who I am talking to.” 

“Mr. McGuffin,” said Harry, in a tone of astonish- 
ment, “ I am greatly surprised at your words, but since 
you have spoken so plainly I will not take the facts of 
your biography at present, but will call with Mr. Ham- 
lin, the proprietor of The Herald , at your house when 
we visit the Second District next week, or the week after, 
and you can, in the meantime, knowing what will be ex- 
pected of you, brighten up your memory.” 

“ That suits me better, Gibbs, for really I can’t re- 
member,” said McGuffin. “Mind, I don’t doubt you, 
Mr. Gibbs, by thunder, I don’t, but a real careful, shrewd 
man ought to know who he is making a confession to 
before he spits out some facts that I will have to tell, I 
suppose.” 

“ Mr. McGuffin, did you ever know an attorney to 
give his client away ?” 

“ I don’t know as I ever did, though I don’t doubt that 
some of ’em is not a pesky bit too good to do it.” 

“ Well,” continued Harry, “ attorneys do not tell their 
clients’ secrets because they are sworn by their oath of 
office not to, and if an attorney’s obligations to his client 
are binding, know now and for all time that an editor’s 
pledge to his political favorites are sacred.” 

“ All right, Mr. Gibbs,” said McGuffin, as he consul- 
ted his watch, “ but I will have to be going if I get off on 
that ten-thirty train, I only have ten minutes to get to 
the depot.” 


AN INTERVIEW 


203 


\ “ Is it so late as that ?” inquired Harry in surprise, as 

he caught up his hat, and said he had to go to the ten- 
thirty train himself, and would accompany Mr. McGuf- 
fin to the depot. The Phenomenal paid his bill, and in 
company with Harry Baine was rapidly driven to the 
station. 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE INIMITABLE INTERVIEWS THE DETECTIVE. 

A FTER Harry Baine had seen C. McGuffin safely 
seated on the out-going train, he felt a sense of 
relief steal over him. 

“ Burt Lester,” he muttered to himself, “ shall be 
with me when I take that old dodger’s pedigree.” 

There was another train to leave in just one half hour 
which would overtake the ten-thirty train at the junc- 
tion, and thus passengers leaving on either would arrive 
at Hampton at the same hour, twelve o’clock that night. 

Harry Baine waited until the train was under full 
headway and there was no chance for McGuffin to get 
off, even if he wanted to. Then the young detective 
called a cab and was at once driven with all speed to 
“ The Arlington,” where, on reaching his room, he trans- 
formed himself into rather an elegant old man, with a 
great amount of dignity and formality still remaining. 
He then hurried out to the cab with his large gripsack, 
and reached the depot just in time to catch the train. 

At three o’clock that afternoon, Harry Baine reached 
the junction, and there walking back and forth was C. 
McGuffin, with his eyes fastened on the platform and 
hands crossed behind him. 

It was rather a raw day for the middle of April, and 
he had his coat buttoned up closely. 

As soon as the train stopped, the detective alighted 
and sought the through car for Hampton, that had been 
set out by the other train. 

He soon found it, and climbed up the car platform 


204 


AN INTERVIEW. 


very slowly, just like any rheumatic old gentleman, and 
deposited his satchel on the seat adjoining that where 
lay McGuffin’s luggage. 

Here the old man seated himself and looked out of the 
car window. He hadn’t long to wait, for the train soon 
started. 

Presently in came McGuffin and took his seat, bowing 
very lo^ to the dignified old man. 

Harry hardly knew what sort of a professional man 
to play the role of, but concluded he would look very 
grave and sedate, yet withal show a disposition to talk. 

They had ridden along for several miles, exchanging 
an occasional observation, when C. McGuffin, Esq., 
seemed suddenly to remember something that apparently 
had been on his mind considerably, at different times, 
but forgotten until now, when it came back to him with 
sudden vividness. Hastily turning to the old gentleman 
he said : “Pardon me, sir, but you are an old gentleman 
and doubtless have had a wide experience. There is one 
question that I would like to ask you, and that is this : 
Do you know anything about or believe anything in 
fortune-telling?” He had let his voice drop to a low 
key at the last part of his question, and looked straight 
at the detective. 

“You have,” said the old man, in a tremulous voice, 
“ read, as it were, my weak point. I, sir, have spent 
years of my life investigating that problem.” 

“ Excuse me, sir,” said McGuffin, rising, “ but permit 
me to put your satchel over here with mine, and join 
you on that seat. I am interested, I am, by thunder, I 
am,” said he, as he crowded in by the side of the detec- 
tive. 

“ There is no such thing,” the old man observed, “as 
telling fortune by cards, but' the past and the future may 
be read through a clairvoyant. I am a clairvoyant, sir, 
myself, and tell fortunes, yet I do not know any man’s 
fortune or anything that I say when I am possessed of 
my governing spirit.” 

“Well, how in the thunder do you know then that 
you tell fortunes?” asked McGuffin. 

“ Why, how do we know anything ?” replied the old 


AN INTERVIEW. 


205 


man. “ Those who consult me say that I tell their past 
truthfully, and because of that, believe my prophesies 
are also true.” 

“How much do you charge for telling a person’s 
past, present, and future ?” asked the Phenomenal. 

“ I charge one hundred dollars,” replied the old man, 
“but I could not tell your fortune unless you chose to 
go on to California with me.” 

“ Going to California, eh ?” queried the Phenomenal, 
thoughtfully. “By thunder,” he said, “I wouldn’t be- 
grudge the hundred dollars if you would tell my for- 
tune.” 

“ I discover that I can tell you some things, now,” 
said the old man, “ for the current of magnetism is very 
strong, sitting so near to me as you do.” At this Harry 
Baine closed his eyes, and after nodding and jerking 
awhile said, “ You are a very rich man. You have been 
away from home, and are now returning. You have been 
to some large city. Ate your breakfast in company with a 
young man. You are ambitious, you want to be Gov- 
ernor, Senator, Congressman, or something like that. 
You made the young man, with whom you talked, very 
angry. He is a great newspaper man. He will come to 
see you at your home, and another gentleman will be 
with him. Don’t make him angry again. Tell him 
everything he asks you to communicate. You will go 
to some large city soon. Will leave your wife and chil- 
dren at the farm. Will stay a long time away from 
there. Everybody will be talking about C. McGuffin, 
Esq. — there — there,” said the old man, as he clasped his 
hands over his eyes, and then slowly removed them and 
looked around in a bewildered way as if he had been 
asleep, and could hardly remember where he was. 

“ Damme, that beats my time, it does, by thunder, it 
does,” exclaimed the Phenomenal McGuffin. 

“ Did you know anything you said ?” he inquired. 

“Nothing, not a word,” feebly responded the old 
gentleman. “ Did I tell you anything that convinced 
you of my clairvoyant power ?” 

“ I should say you did,” said McGuffin, enthusiasti- 


206 


AN INTERVIEW. 


cally, “ you even told my name. You don’t call that,” 
said the Phenomenal, “a complete thing, I hope ?” 

“ No,” said his old companion, as he bent close to 
McGuffin’s ear, “no, I could tell you of crimes, short- 
comings, and robbery, that you would not like to hear 
me speak of. Shall I tell you what I allude to ?” 

“ No, no, never mind ; I am satisfied, anyway,” said 
McGuffin, greatly subdued, and he proceeded to draw 
forth his purse and count out one hundred dollars, 
which he handed over to the old man. 

McGuffin was sleeping soundly when Hampton was 
reached, wholly unconscious that the old man had pil- 
fered his pockets of all the letters he had in them. 

Hampton was not a large place, therefore Dame Gos- 
sip was very active, and Harry knew that it would be 
much better to get off the train in the same make-up that 
he proposed to wear during his sojourn with the good 
people of that place. Accordingly he found an oppor- 
tunity, before reaching the station, to remove his gray 
hair and beard, and come out as Harry Gibbs in fine 
shape. When he stepped off the train, Willets was the 
first man he saw, and that glowing gentleman seemed 
very glad, indeed, to see him. 

“Hold on a moment, Mr. Gibbs,” said the Inimitable, 
“ wait until the train pulls out. I want to see you about 
a matter pertaining strictly to business.” 

“ I do wonder,” thought Harry to himself, “ what this 
voluminous chap can want of me. One thing is certain, 
and that is, he don’t suspect my identity.” 

The brass buttoned conductor at last waved his lan- 
tern, and the old engine horse again began to cough out 
the wondrous strength of steam, and the train glided 
away in the midnight darkness. 

“ Come in,” said the Inimitable, “ I am all alone this 
evening. That charming youth, Lin Brinkerhoff, who 
for many months has been my faithful companion 
through the weary watch of night, is taking a lay off.” 

“You observed, Mr. Willets,” said Harry stiffly, 
“ that you desired to see me. The hour is very late, and 
unless the business in hand is very urgent, I shall ask 


AN INTERVIEW. 


207 


you to postpone the matter until I have had some 
sleep.” 

“ Mr. Gibbs,” said the Inimitable, / 4 sit down and let 
me entreat you to make yourself perfectly at home. What 
I wish to see you about is like uncorked champagne — it 
will spoil by standing ; therefore, pardon me for start- 
ing the ball to rolling by saying, my dear sir, that there 
are sacred feelings wrapt tenderly about the heart of 
every man, woman and child in the whole world. Per- 
mit me, Mr. Gibbs, to exclaim, as it were, in the lan- 
guage of the Holy Writ : 4 For in much wisdom is much 
grief ; and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sor- 
row.’ These biblical words are especially true in my 
case at the present time, and possibly may prove the 
same in your own case, Mr. Harry Baine !” 

44 My God ! what does this mean ?” gasped Harry, 
coming to his feet. 

44 Be seated, Harry, my charming fellow,” said Wil- 
lets, 44 be seated and be calm, be cool and collected. 
Here, sir, — drink a glass of water from this rusted old 
tin dipper, and verify a remark that I have often made, 
that it mattereth not whether the vessel be a cup of 
burnished gold or a raw gourd, the cooling draught 
tasteth the same. Pardon me, sir,” continued the Inimit- 
able Willets, 44 for making the observation, but my sus- 
picions are that your flushed face, parched lips and fever- 
ed brow are wholly chargeable to the climate : deucedly 
torrid just now, isn’t it ?” 

44 Mr. Willets,” said Harry (settling back in that same 
old arm-chair that held Willets on that memorable night 
when Miss Zurilda Goodsil, in a not over-polite note, 
dunned him for his past-due board), 44 1 wish you would 
explain yourself.” 

44 Just what I am going to do,” promptly responded 
Willets. 44 Now, sir,” he went on, as he settled himself 
so that all his weight came on one leg, and brought his 
open left hand palm upwards, and laid the long, big- 
jointed index finger of his right hand therein, and ever 
so often lifted up and dropped it back again as he talked. 
44 You want an explanation, 4 Mr. Tank Inspector ?’ ” You 
shall have it. For several months you have been cooing 


208 


AN INTERVIEW. 


around me in the capacity of a brother subordinate 
official on these lines of railways. Have I enjoyed your 
charming company and the musical ring of your melodi- 
ous voice ? I thought I did, but as Scripture says : ‘ In 
much wisdom is much grief.’ The wisdom I ha\e is that 
you are an enemy, as it were, ‘ layin’ ’ for me, and when 
I learned this my feelings became strangely similar to 
those experienced by me in an Eastern city a few years 
ago. The circumstances were like this : I was, without 
warning, smitten down with a malignant fever. It was 
in the sultry month of August, and I laid there on my 
feverish bed in what I called, when talking to the boys 
outside, ‘ my apartments on the first floor.’ It was on 
the first floor (that is, below the roof, and the building 
was seven stories high), while ‘ my apartments ’ consisted 
of a small, seven-by-eight bedroom, scantily furnished 
and wholly destitute of all conveniences. 

“ It was soon reported around that the man up in the 
cock-loft room, No. 103, would, in all probability, die. 
There I lay, wholly unconscious of the gossip, and most 
everything else, tossing and tumbling on what seemed 
to be my death-bed. This went on for a full week, and, 
at last, just as the retreating day vanished into twilight, 
I heard a voice as soft and melodious and charming as 
your own, Mr. Harry Baine. It was wafted up to my 
window from the uncleanly alley below. A song, a 
beautiful, comforting song, — will I ever forget the 
words? Never, no, never ! They were : 

“ ‘ I am waiting, my darling, my darling, for thee, 

You dear one up there in one hundred and three.’ 

“ It was a beautiful, soothing song, and perhaps won 
me back to life ; but permit me to inform you, sir, that 
it came near costing the singer his life when I learned 
it was a greedy undertaker who had been doing the 
singing act. 

“ You, sir, are on about equal footing, in my valued 
estimation, with the undertaker, and unless you choose 
to make such explanations as are satisfactory to me, 
Edward Willets, Esq., you cannot and shall notconsum- 


AN INTERVIEW. 


209 


mate the burning desire of your heart by marrying my 
most beautiful and charming sister Emily, in whom you 
have already confided great confidence. 

“Think not, Mr. Baine, that I am a stranger to that 
all-gone sensation and ceaseless yearning known as 
‘ Love.’ I can truly voice the words of the poet Hogg, 
who undoubtedly was the greatest poetical swine of his 
time, where he said : 

“ 4 For me, I’m woman’s slave confessed. 

Without her hopeless and unblest.’ ” 

As the Inimitable thus poetically concluded his re- 
marks, he sank back into a chair and wiped and rewiped 
his flushed face. 

Harry sat staring at nothing in particular, but every- 
thing inside the small operator’s room in general, for 
several moments. 

Finally he said : “ Mr. Willets, I do not believe 
you are guilty of any crime, and I told ’Rilla Tobias 
that ” 

“ Charming, charming Cinderilla,” interrupted Wil- 
lets. 

“ That,” continued Harry, “ I would do all in my 
power to prove you innocent. 

“ My father does not ” 

“Stephen Baine,” again interrupted Willets. 

“Yes,” said Harry, “ Stephen Baine, my father, does 
not believe you guilty of taking his money, but ” 

“ Hold on there,” said Willets, rising to his feet and 
again bringing his big-jointed finger into action. “Do 
I, sir, understand you to say that I am suspected of steal- 
ing Stephen Baine’s money?” 

“ Exactly,” replied Harry. 

“ Exactly, the devil !” ejaculated Willets, scratching 
his head. “ I supposed that I was wholly exonerated 
from that charge months ago. If I wasn’t, why, I ask, 
why in the name of the Virgin Mary was I released from 
the Hampton bastile (and, by the way, it is a miserable, 
one-horse institution), and reinstated in my old job.” 

Harry saw that he had gone just far enough to make 


210 


AN INTERVIEW. 


it necessary for him to go all the way, and believing, as 
he did, that Willets was innocent of all knowledge con. 
nected with the affair, he did not hesitate, but in a con- 
fidential manner told the Inimitable all, and concluded 
by saying : “ I may as well make a clean breast of it, 
and tell you that my life will indeed be most complete 
if I succeed in gaining your sister’s hand. I have not 
said this yet to her in words, but she certainly has read 
the truth stamped on every lineament and feature of my 
face, and unless I am miserably blinded, she reciprocates 
my own deep feelings. I would now like to know, Mr. 
Willets, how you came into possession of such a fund of 
knowledge concerning myself ?” 

“ My charming friend,” said the Inimitable, “ there is 
my hand and my promise of everlasting friendship. My 
knowledge, sir, concerning yourself was obtained through 
two different sources. ’Rilla Tobias, the noble woman 
who stimulates my every act, and who one day I hope to 
call my wife, sent me your picture and praised you up 
considerably. I received that picture, sir, before I ever 
saw you, yet I failed to recognize your face when you 
came to Hampton. My sister Emily sent me the photo 
you gave her, but requested that I return it by first mail, 
which I did, and that was only day before yesterday. 
She knows you as Harry Gibbs, and it was not until I 
got her letter that I thought of the photo I already had, 
and when I compared them I found they were from the 
same print. Then my eyes began to open, and when I 
received this letter from Richard Tobias, Rilla’s brother, 
— oh ! you need not look so deucedly surprised; my 
charming fellow, you may never have heard of it, but 
still she has a brother for all of that. When I received 
this letter, as I before observed, and learned that you 
were driving all over Cinapolis hunting for Mr. T. 
Richards, then I knew you had been following my friend 
Richard home, and prying around after him like a 
sneaking hungry wolf. Please, sir, excuse the compari- 
son.” 

“ Have you no idea,” asked Harry earnestly, “where 
that old satchel which contained my father’s money 
went to ?” 


AN INTERVIEW. 


211 


“ You will excuse my frankness/’ the Inimitable re- 
plied, “ but I have always doubted, and doubted seriously 
that fourteen thousand dollar story. In short, my friend, 
until a month ago I firmly believed that the story of the 
old gentleman, losing any money at all was a monster fish 
story ; but during the last month I have, as it were, ex- 
perienced a change of heart. There is an old adage,” 
continued Willets, “ ‘that a fool never changes his mind, 
while a wise man does.’ Now, in sublime imitation 
of that, wise saying, I can truthfully say, that I do 
believe he lost his money in this very depot, and I am 
abundantly supplied with reasons for the faith that is 
within me.” 

The two then fell into an earnest conversation, and 
finally agreed to keep their understanding a secret. No 
one was to know, not even Burt Lester, of this compact 
of friendship between Edward Wiilets and Harry Baine. 
It might be well to say here that the Inimitable was very 
loath to believe the theory that Lin Brinkerhoff knew 
anything about the theft, but strenuously insisted that 
old Hinchey, the old villain from whom Richard and 
little Penfield Pembrooke had fled, was most likely the 
guilty one, and, in fact, this was Richard’s theory. 

“ Hold on a moment,” said Harry as he took a bunch 
of letters from his pocket, and while he glanced them 
over, asked, “ do you know a man by the name of C. 
McGuffin ?” 

“ McGuffin, McGuffin ?” repeatedWillets, in a thought- 
ful manner. “ No, sir, I believe not.” 

“ He is the chap,” said Harry, “ that little Penfield 
Pembrooke was bound out to, when he first left Hamp- 
ton.” 

“Oh, yes, I remember,” said Willets. “I accompa- 
nied the lad five miles out on the stage, the morning he 
left.” 

“ And gave him twenty dollars,” said Harry. 

“ Who told you that ?” Willets quickly asked. 

“ ’Rilla Tobias’ uncle. Oh, you need not look so 
deucedly surprised, as you said to me a while ago. You 
may never have heard that she had an uncle, but she has, 


212 


AN INTERVIEW. 


nevertheless. His name is George Tobias, and he lives 
with this C. McGuffin.” 

“ Ah ! what is this ?” said Harry, while a startled ex- 
pression overspread his handsome features. The occa- 
sion of this remark and startled look was a letter which 
he had come across in the bunch of pilfered mail, which 
he had by stratagem taken from the Phenomenal McGuf- 
fin’s pockets. 

“ You do not believe that the boy is guilty ?” said 
Harry, assuming an indifferent manner, just as if he had 
made no discovery. 

Willets had settled down — that is, he had at last seat- 
ed himself at his accustomed place, and elevated his big 
ungainly feet to their accustomed rack, and dropped his 
long bony arms over the side of his chair in his usual 
manner. His arms were just long enough so that either 
hand rested partially on the floor. 

When Harry propounded this question, Willets said 
in a very weak voice, “ My honored friend, if I was as 
sure of my breakfast as I am of Lin Brinkerhoff’s inno- 
cence, I would really feel more natural than I do at the 
present moment ; that is, less worried. It is quite an- 
noying to have that all-gone sensation meekly, yet surely, 
come creeping into your stomach about this time in the 
morning, and have a dyspeptic landlord, whom you have 
always honored for his veracity, assure you on his word 
of honor that unless certain pecuniary matters are satis- 
factorily adjusted by this morning, prior to the pouring 
of the coffee, why, no coffee could be poured.” 

u What do you mean, Mr. Willets ?” asked Harry, in 
some surprise. 

“ I mean, my charming friend,” replied the Inimitable 
Willets, “ that I am rapidly approaching that place on 
life’s highway that is beset with driftwood, over which my 
weary feet will stumble, and thorns of financial disaster 
that will sorely prick my tender flesh. You, perhaps, 
sir, are familiar with that renowned philosopher’s (Emer- 
son) writings. In one place he says : ‘ The world is 
yours, take anything you choose, but remember you 
must pay for it.’ Now, I have been taking, or rather 
partaking, quite freely of hot beefsteaks, saddles of mut- 


AN INTERVIEW. 


213 


ton, roast loins of pork, and other savory dishes that can 
always be found on my landlord’s table — that is, be 
found there before I commence the consumption thereof, 
— after I am through it usually looks very boneyardy in 
the immediate vicinity where I have been actively hold- 
ing forth. Thus, you see I have been freely helping 
myself to anything and everything I desired, or that the 
stomach of mortal could wish for, but have not, as yet, 
paid the price/’ 

As the Inimitable concluded his explanation, his head 
sank low on his breast, and a quiver of remorse and utter 
hopelessness seemed to shake his lengthy frame with a 
convulsed shudder. 

“ If,” said Harry, “ you are in need of any moneyed 
accommodation, permit me, Mr. Willets, to insist that 
you look no further, for it will afford me real pleasure 
to be the humble instrument that can remove the drift- 
wood from your path, and the thorn of adversity from 
your side. I have plenty of spare cash. How much 
would you like ?” 

Willets’s feet came down from the table, and his hands 
came up from the floor, and straightening himself up, 
he said in a half-disbelieving tone, “ Don’t mock me, my 
charming friend, the board bill is larger than you have 
any idea of, and surely you do not mean that you will 
loan me the money to liquidate the indebtedness? No, 
no, it is too good news to be true.” 

“But I do mean it,” remonstrated Harry earnestly, 
“ and I mean every word of it. Now, tell me how much 
the bill is. Is it more than a hundred dollars ?” 

“A hundred dollars ?” said Willets, as he came to his 
feet again, “ no, indeed, I don’t run bills to that enormous 
amount, my charming fellow. Here is the bill.” 

Harry Baine took the crumpled piece of paper on 
which the landlord had written out the account, and un- 
folding it, read aloud : “ Your board bill must be paid at 
once. I will no longer put up with your trifling prom- 
ises. You owe me a balance of ninety-nine dollars and 
ninety-five cents, which must be paid before you eat 
another meal at my table.” 

“I told you,” interrupted Willets, “that it had not as 


214 


A N INTERVIEW. 


yet reached the fabulous sum of one hundred dollars. 
I received this not over-courteous note from my landlord 
last evening after supper. The last clause, sir, is what 
winds me up. It, sir, is the crusher. Not another meal 
shall I have until the bill is paid.” 

“You have no money, I suppose,” said Harry, as he 
drew out his purse. 

“ I certainly have,” replied Willets, tartly, “I never 
yet was broke, — that is, for a greater period than three 
or four months at a time.” 

“ How much have you ?” asked Harry rather sternly. 

“A dollar,” replied Willets, promptly, “that is, I did 
have a dollar before I broke it. Let me see ; I bought a 
tooth-brush for a quarter, shaving soap ten cents, a 
couple of linen collars for thirty-five cents, and a quar- 
ter’s worth of cigars ; and, by-the way, I have a couple 
of those cigars left, and I insist that you join me in a 
social smoke.” As he said this he reached Harry a cigar, 
at the same time biting the tip-end of another one pre- 
paratory to lighting. 

Harry lit the cigar impatiently, and then said : 
“ Twenty-five cents, ten cents, thirty-five cents, and 
twenty-five cents makes about ninety-five cents that you 
spent, and hence have the enormous sum of five cents 
left.” 

“ More than that left, isn’t there ?” observed Willets, 
as he quietly went on lighting his cigar. 

“Well, we will soon see,” he continued, “how much 
capital, surplus and undivided profits are in the treas- 
ury.” As he said this he thrust his long, bony hand into 
his pocket and fished up a withered-looking purse, and 
observed as he did so that it looked deucedly like some- 
thing an elephant had stepped on. He opened the purse 
and turned it upside down on the table, with a great 
flourish, and a solitary nickel fell out. The Inimitable 
looked slightly disappointed, and holding up the purse, 
looked carefully through it, as if he suspected there was 
more to follow the pioneer nickel. After satisfying him- 
self that a five-cent piece was beyond a doubt the extent 
of his earthly possessions, he drew a long breath and 
said with great suavity : “ My charming friend, There is 


AN INTERVIEW. 


215 


a five-cent piece. You will observe that it is genu- 
ine. No lead nickel is ever played off on me. You 
will also observe this piece of coin is not in anyway 
mutilated. No, sir, it is a valuable piece of money, and 
worth every cent it claims to be. ,, 

During all this time Harry sat smoking his cigar in 
silence, and even seemed to enjoy the Inimitable’s queer 
performance. 

When Willets ceased speaking, Harry pushed toward 
him the roll of bills he had received from McGuffin for 
telling his fortune, saying : “There is one hundred dol- 
lars.” 

“A hundred dollars,” said Willets, “that is really 
more than I need, my charming friend. Let me see, the 
bill is ninety-nine dollars and ninety-five cents. I have 
a nickel, so that would leave ninety-nine dollars and 
ninety cents that I need to borrow of you. My dear sir,” 
he went on, “ I have no change, and in this roll of bills 
you have given me are ten cents more than I need, but 
I will remember that I owe you ten cents and will pay it 
back some time, if I live long enough.” 

“ You mean,” said Harry, “ that you owe me a hun- 
dred dollars.” 

“ So it is, certainly, sir,” replied Willets, glowingly. 
“ A hundred dollars instead of ten cents ; a slight dif- 
ference, but it shall be paid ; remember that, sir, it shall 
be paid. Sir, you can have no adequate conception of 
the rasping exasperations of my feelings that I suffered 
when I confessed to you the deplorable condition of my 
finances. True, I wasn’t broke, but I was deucedly close 
to the dead line. To be candid, I was in a devil of a 
short run, and I could not have looked bluer than I felt, 
had I been soaked for a fortnight in a caldron of indigo 
water. In short, my faith and hope in the doctrine of 
‘ self-reliance,’ was fast slipping and slipping away from 
my grasp. Permit me, my charming Mr. Baine, to pause 
here and ask the question, ‘ What is faith ? What is 
hope ?’ We are biblically told by the Apostle Paul that 
‘Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence 
of things not seen.’ We are also informed by the same 
undoubted authority that hope is a sort of a combination 


216 


AN INTERVIEW. 


or pool between desire and expectation. Now, my 
dear Mr. Baine, these definitions may satisfy the average 
mind, but my mind is not an average one. No, I don’t 
mean that — I mean to say that my thirsting soul craves 
for a poetical definition, and the illustrious Kent, that 
poetical genius of his day, has indeed most beautifully 
given such a definition in the following words : 

“ Faith is the star that gleams above 
Hope is the flower that buds below ; 

Twin tokens of celestial love 
That out from nature’s bosom grow.” 

“ Ah, those are soul-touching words, they are indeed.” 
Here Willets paused and consulted his watch, and saw 
that it was almost breakfast time. “It was my inten- 
tion,” he then observed, “ to make a desperate effort to 
thank you in appropriate words and manner for the 
loan of this hundred dollars, but for some cause I am 
unable to express myself with that fluency which usu- 
ally characterizes my ordinary conversation. There- 
fore ” 

“ Friend Willets,” interrupted Harry, “let me entreat 
you to say not a word or utter not a syllable of thanks 
for this trivial accommodation. You can pay me back 
as soon as you get around to it, and that is all there is 
of it. I notice that you have a very poor delivery this 
morning, and am looking every minute for a stoppage 
in your speech.” As Harry said this, a merry twinkle 
came into his eyes. 

“ In conclusion, then,” said Willets, wholly unmind- 
ful of Harry’s irony, “ I will say that I am under lasting 
obligations to you. How long they will last remains to 
be seen, but my greatest wish shall ever be that the great 
God of the universe, who doeth all things well, will in 
his goodness spare your life to see the day that I return 
you this money ; for, as I before observed, it shall be 
paid, sir, it shall be paid.” 

Many years afterward Harry Baine had a better 
understanding of Willets’ words than he did the morning 
they were spoken. 


THE MCGUFFIN , FARM. 


217 


CHAPTER XXL 

THE DETECTIVES VISIT THE MCGUFFIN FARM. 

T HERE are dim, shadowy phantoms that at times 
gather and congregate about our couches during 
the hours of sleep. 

One seems to be smiling and happy, and the thoughts 
it suggests are soothing and restful ; while another 
phantom is as dark and black as midnight itself. Its 
irregular and distorted features are the very semblance 
of debauch, dissipation and revelry. 

It brings in its wake a host of distressing, fretful 
dreams. 

One moment, we are standing on the narrow, over- 
hanging rocks of some deep, black, yawning chasm. Of 
a sudden, our very weight breaks off the ledge, and in- 
stead of at once sliding over into the mouth of the 
bottomless pit, we catch at some other crag for support, 
then lose our footing again and stumble; then again 
cling to some projecting spur of rock, and all the time 
the ghastly, grinning and distorted features of this black- 
winged phantom hovers near, yet ever just beyond 
our reach, and mockingly chuckles at our wearying 
struggle. 

Thus the night wears away, and when morning comes 
we feel as tired and exhausted as we were when we lay 
down the night before. 

This was the case with Burt Lester, the detective, on 
a certain morning some two weeks after Harry Baine’s 
return to Hampton. 

It was on the particular morning of the day set apart 
by these two “ shadows” to visit C. McGuffin, Esq., at 
his farm, as had been arranged by Harry while playing 
the role of political editor of The Herald , the leading 
party paper of the state. 

Breakfast was over, and our two detective friends 
were seated on the back porch of the hotel, enjoying 
their Havanas, and waiting for the sands of another hour 
10 


218 


THE MCGUFFIN FARM. 


to run, for then the stage coach would arrive, going 
toward the Mills. 

“ Let me see that letter again,” said Burt, looking up 
at Harry. 

Without making any reply, Harry Baine drew from 
his pocket, a bunch of old letters, and selected one 
written in a feminine hand, which he reached to his com- 
panion. It read as follows : 

“Hampton, March 17th, t 8 — . 

“ C. McGuffin, Esq.: 

“ Dear Sir : — My brother says your offer to give a 
mortgage is satisfactory. You can meet me at the sta- 
tion Tuesday next and we will go to my uncle’s, who is 
an attorney, to have the papers drawn up. My uncle 
lives at Milford, a village near Jacksontown. Please 
destroy this letter as soon as you have read it. 

“Yours respectfully, 


“Well,” said Burt, half to himself, “while the name 
has been torn off, yet I know well enough who has an 
uncle at Milford — have studied law under him.” 

“A mortgage, eh ? Well we will go to-day and see 
what can be done toward stealing C. McGuffin’s pedi- 
gree, as Harry calls it.” 

They started soon after this, and walked out on the 
highway that led toward the Mills, and waited in a 
woody place, for the lumbering old stage to come 
along. 

They did this to prevent the village loafers from hav- 
ing anything concerning themselves to gossip about. 

Harry was dressed in a plain business suit, just as he 
was on the morning he met McGuffin at “ The Arling- 
ton,” in Cinapolis, while Burt still wore his dignified, 
English swell eye-glass make-up. 

They had gained the high road at a place where huge 
trees skirted it along on either side. The -woods were 
full of bursting buds, johnnie-jump-ups, and other early 
flowers, all laughingly nodding their heads to the pass- 
ing morning breeze, while nature’s carpet of living 


THE MCGUFFIN FARM. 


219 


verdure was matting itself, thicker and thicker as the 
days wore on. 

They seated themselves by the road side on a fallen 
tree to enjoy this fresh and beautiful April morning, 
and to feast their eyes on the wondrous works of Him 
who caused the grasses to grow, the flowers to bloom, 
and planted the lily of the field, and likened it to true 
life. 

“ I tell you, Harry, this is resting, to look around and 
see these sights. This is Spring time, and how eager I 
was, when a boy, to lay aside my shoes and stockings 
and run frisking about on the turfy green, like a gambol- 
ing lamb in the sunshine.” 

“Yes,” replied Harry, “all our boyish pranks and 
boyish ambitions come back to us when surrounded with 
such cheering sights as these. I have often thought,” 
he continued, “that the Spring time must be strangely 
interesting to the very old, for it is like a milestone on 
which they can chronicle another time, on life’s journey, 
that they have seen the mother earth wake from its 
frozen stupor and bud into living life. I do wonder, 
Burt, if there is any one whose finer feelings are so 
blunted by the evils of this age to be unmoved by the 
pleasures of a ramble through leafy woods?” 

“ I hope not,” Burt replied, “for a man must surely 
be about lost, if his heart does not thrill a little when 
surrounded, as we are now in the solitude of the deep 
wild wood, by growing herbage, blooming flowers, burst- 
ing buds, and listening to the barking, chirping squirrels 
and the twitter of the happy birds ; and then the cease- 
less song of that rivulet, over there, whose waters are 
making such restful music as they huiry over those peb- 
bly rocks.” 

“ Hush ! who is this coming?” said Harry. 

They leaned forward and discovered a tall individual 
coming toward them. “It is that confounded Willets, 
it is, by heavens,” replied Burt, in a suppressed voice. 

By this time he was almost to them, and wore the 
joyful, happy expression so common with him. 

“ Ah, gentlemen, good morning to you. I see you, 
like myself, can not forebear an occasional ramble in 


220 


THE MCGUFFIN FARM. 


the deep woods, where you can with your tender, loving 
and poetic thoughts commune with nature. Pardon me, 
gentlemen, but I can not adequately, and with that 
fluency which I fain would command, express to you the 
pleasure I take in my rambles here, with the squirrels 
and birds for companions, and, when evening time comes 
on, the hum of winged insects. True they are wild, yet 
gentle, companions, and they add a pleasure to my 
strolls which only the Poet can explain. Gentlemen, I 
cannot express to you the deep, pathetic feelings that 
take possession of me, and, as it were, twine about my 
very heart when I am alone with nature. But, I doubt 
not that it helps me in my weak way to appreciate the 
inexpressible feelings that must have drenched, as it 
were, Byron’s very soul, when he said : 

‘ I love not man the less, but nature more.’ 

“Ah, sirs, it is truly remarkable what a delightful 
sensation prevades our whole system when rambling 
among the growing foliage and the laughing, giggling 
flowers that kiss alike the morning and evening breeze, 
the tall trees, the leafy boughs, the twining grape vines, 
and—” 

“Look there, by Ned,” said Willets, abruptly break- 
ing into his own speech, “ there comes the stage. Now, 
who would have thought that it was no later than that?” 

“ We are going away for a short trip,” said Harry, as 
he gave Willets a knowing look. 

Willets stared at Burt a moment, and then said, with- 
out a smile or a single ray of intelligence lighting up 
his sandy face, “ Biblically speaking, gentlemen, permit 
me to observe, ‘ Behold, the man clothed with linen, 
which had the ink-horn by his side, reported the 
matter.’ ” 

As he said this, he turned and walked away into the 
woods. 

The old stage came slowly along. Harry hailed the 
driver, and soon they were seated within and wheeled 
along toward McGuffin’s. 

Several miles were passed when Burt finally broke 


THE MCGUFFIN FARM. 


221 


the silence by saying, “ I had a devil of a dream last 
night, Harry.” 

“A dream?” said Harry, as he looked smilingly 
around on his companion. 

“Yes,” replied Burt, thoughtfully, a a dream, and it 
haunts me unmercifully, although I scorn to think of 
putting any faith in dreams.” 

“ Pray, tell me,” said Harry, “this remarkable dream 
of yours ?” 

“ Oh, it is not so remarkable that I know of,” replied 
Burt, “ only it kept me on the rack and wearied me more 
than all the sleep I got refreshed me.” 

“I dreamed,” continued Burt in a slow, thoughtful 
way, “that I was standing on the very edge of a rocky 
cliff, and a phantom devil, of the most hideous kind and 
shape, approached me. He was as black as darkness, and 
wore a frightful grin which parted his lips and exposed 
two great fangs of tushes. His eyes were small and 
restless, and his distorted features seemed to say, ‘You 
are in my power and I mean to hurl you down this ragged 
cliff to the surging, turbulent waters below.’ Nearer, 
and nearer still, he came, yet spoke not a word, but kept 
crowding me closer to the cliff’s edge. Finally, the 
ledge of rock on which I stood broke, and slipping from 
under my feet went thundering down, and with a terrible 
splash sank in the waters below. Instead of falling with 
it, I caught another projecting ledge, and again found 
footing. Right over me hovered that horrid phantom 
imp, exulting at my great danger and seeming miracu- 
lous escape. While I was still looking above me at this 
horrible figure, I felt the rock givingaway from beneath 
my feet, and only by the greatest effort did I keep from 
falling with this second ledge that went tumbling into 
the waters. Thus, it seemed, for hours I was kept on the 
rack of torture, until my hands and feet were lacerated 
and bleeding, and still that horrid face gleamed and 
grinned in mocking torture just above me. 

“ Presently, I saw your face and another’s look over 
the edge of the rocky crag, which was now far above. 
Then you lowered a rope. Just as I let go my hold on 
the sharp and cutting rocks to reach this kindly help, that 


222 


THE MCGUFFIN FARM. 


accursed phantom snatched it away, and I fell down, 
down to the waters below. Instead of being dashed to 
pieces, I was seemingly revived. A friendly piece of 
some wrecked vessel floated near, and after much effort 
I reached and dragged my almost exhausted body on 
top of it. Then I raised my head and looked upward in 
the hope of seeing you, but instead I saw that horrid, 
black and loathsome devil hovering over me, and his 
debauched features were convulsed with mocking laugh- 
ter. I was soon floated far out in the billowy sea, and 
discovered that it was thickly strewn with ghastly, 
bloated, upturned faces of the floating dead. Then, of 
a sudden, I saw on the wide waste of turbulent waters a 
snowy sail coming swiftly toward me, and as it drew 
near, Kittie Pembrooke leaned over the vessel’s side, 
and reached her fair, slender hands to lift me up. Her 
long, dark, wavy hair flowed about her fair shoulders 
unrestrained. 

“ Her warm arms were about me, and already her 
panting breath fanned my cheeks when that hideous, 
strong-armed devil of darkness struck her arms down, 
and engulfed the white-sailed craft into the roaring sea, 
and then bore Kittie Pembrooke away in his arms, she 
struggling to free herself, while the evil one laughed a 
hollow, triumphant laugh. Just then there came a legion 
of white-robed angels, and they were playing on harps 
of gold and singing anthems of praise. They sur- 
rounded the black, retreating form that was bearing 
Kittie away, and struck him down into the mad waters 
among the drifting dead, and Kittie was borne in their 
arms, where she laid contentedly. 

u As they came near to where I was floating, she 
looked pleadingly into the angelic faces about her, and 
reached her snowy arms toward me. Then a halo of 
light shone about me so brightly that I was blinded. 
The rigid, drifting corpses were no longer discernible. 
I was borne to an emerald palace, where precious stones 
paved the checkered floor, and where the sweet-scented 
odors of a thousand varieties of flowers ladened the air. 
There, Harry, that is my dream. Now don’t laugh at 
me for telling it.” 


THE MCGUFEIN FARM. 223 

j ' .. ^ '' 

; 

“No, Bart,” replied Harry, half jesting, half in 
earnest, “ no, I will not laugh at you, but when 1 see my 
cousin Kittie 1 will tell her that you are hopelessly in 
the meshes of Cupid’s netted wilderness, and that she is, 
without a question, the one to help you in this, your 
first attack.” 

They both laughed heartily at Harry’s words, little 
dreaming that a prophecy had been uttered in Burt Les- 
ter’s strange dream. 

When the Mills were finally reached, the sun was 
well down the western skv. 

.j 

They had talked the matter over, and concluded to 
remain over night at the Mills and to drive out to the 
Phenomenal’s early the next morning ; but fate willed 
it otherwise. 

They had no sooner alighted from the coach than a 
dressed-up sort of an old rough-and-ready, corpulent- 
looking farmer came forward and said in a loud, famil- 
iar voice : 

“ Hello, Gibbs, my dear sir, hello. Glad to see you, 
by thunder, I be. ” 

While he was saying this, he took Harry by the hand 
and almost wrung it off. 

As soon as their greeting was over, Harry very form- 
ally presented to C. McGuffin, Esq., of the Second Dis- 
trict, the Honorable Mr. Hamlin, owner and proprietor 
of The Herald . 

“Glad to see you, Mr. Hamlin,” said McGuffin, in a 
stammering way — embarrassed, yet determined that these 
l city chaps should not detect it. 

“ Drive down here !” shouted McGuffin, at the top 
of his voice, to his teamster or coachman, who sat ou 
top of the box, holding a spirited span of dapple 

I grays. 

The driver thus addressed drove across the open 
ground that lay between the village post-office and the 
hotel building. As the horses drew up, our detective 
friends saw that C. McGuffin had lately, very lately, 
provided himself with a family barouche. Yes, it was bran 
new, as was also the silver-plated harness. The driver 
ind Harry exchanged a look of recognition, but not a 


224 


THE MCGUFFIH FAEM. 


word was spoken. It will be remembered that they had 
met before, when Tobs visited Dairyfield Farm. 

It was a very pleasant afternoon, and by this time the 
sun was casting very long shadows. McGuffin stepped 
forward when the barouche was driven up and let down 
the cover, exposing to view the rich upholstering within. 
After this was done, the reporting political editor, who 
had an “ink-horn by his side,” and the very dignified, 
English-looking gentleman were invited to take seats 
within. McGuffin followed them, and ordered Tobs, his 
coachman, to drive down across the iron bridge and 
back, saying : “ By that time the mail will be distrib- 
uted.” 

Accordingly, the spirited team was headed toward 
the iron bridge. 

McGuffin, by way of opening up the conversation, 
produced a handful of cigars and provided lights. 

“These,” observed Harry, “are the same brand of 
cigars you so handsomely treated me to when in the 
city ?” 

“ Yes, same thing,” replied McGuffin, while he pro- 
ceeded to light a cigar for himself ; “ you see,” he went 
on, “ they were such devilish good cigars that I just 
wrote down and ordered them to send me up five hun- 
dred, so I would be prepared like for the campaign, this 
coming summer and fall. When these run out we will 
get more.” As he said this he laughed a coarse, pomp- 
ous laugh, as much as to say, “ I have plenty of the 
shiners, and don’t you forget it.” 

The distinguished Mr. Hamlin observed that the 
barouche was a very elegant one, and inquired if it was 
not built after the latest style. 

“You bet your life it is,” replied the Phenomenal; 
“ I ordered this when I was in the city last, and just got 
it home a few days ago.” 

The iron bridge by this time was reached, and the 
old Mill, from whence the village derived its name, was 
just above, with its long dam stretching across from the 
Mill to the opposite bank. 

Over the whole length of the mill-dam the shimmer- 


THE MCGUFFIN FARM. 


225 


ing waters fell in one long unbroken line, with a steady, 
unchanging roar. 

“ Undoubtedly,” observed Harry, “that is a fine water 
power.” 

“ Fine !” said McGuffin ; “ why there is not such an- 
other water-power on the whole river. You see,” he 
went on, “this dam is at the foot of the five-mile rapids. 
I have had my eye on that piece of property for the past 
twelve years, and when the time was ripe I was in readi- 
ness and picked the fruit.” 

“ I do not quite understand you,” observed the dis- 
tinguished Mr. Hamlin, looking through his eye-glass at 
the Phenomenal. 

“Don’t eh ?” replied McGuffin, with a very knowing 
look. “ Why I mean this, by the time being ripe. The Gil- 
ford boys, who owned the Mill, got behind and had to 
borrow money, and as I had money to loan they came to 
me, and, by thunder, they had to pay such interest as I 
saw fit to charge, you bet your life they did. Thus mat- 
ters have went on for the last three years ; and interest, 
you know,” said McGuffin, with a heartless chuckle, “ is 
a cancer that eats continually, day and night and Sun- 
days, too, and its pangs of hunger are never satisfied. 
After three years of good faithful eating in this con- 
stant, unceasing way, it mellowed them, and they got 
ripe and willing to sell, even anxious to sell me the old 
mill property that three years ago they insultingly told 
me I didn’t have money enough to buy. I bought it, 
just the other day, for about one-half . what it is really 
worth, and have already let the contract to have it re- 
fitted throughout with patent rollers and all the other 
late improvements put in.” 

Thus they conversed until the post-office was again 
reached. 

Old Tim Mannahan was on the lookout, and as the 
dappled grays drew up before his door, he hastened 
down the old time worn steps with the Phenomenal Mc- 
Guffin’s mail, and then, without attracting any notice, 
reached Tobs a letter. 

“ Here is yer mail, papers and lethers,” old Tim re- 
marked, as he handed it in, “and sure Mr. McGuffin 
10 * 


226 


THE MCGUFFIN FARM. 


your eyes will be after being good and sore when ye’s 
read all that. Here, Mr. McGuffin,” said old Tim, 
reaching up a piece of money, “ is that quarther of a 
dollar I have been afther owin’ ye’s for a fortnight past, 
sure.” 

“ That’s all right, Tim,” said the Phenomenal, as he 
thrust the coin in his pocket with a flourish, and called 
out to Tobs to drive on. 

“ Tim !” observed the distinguished Hamlin, “ what 
an old name. Tim, Tim, — now what is that old chap’s 
name, anyway ?” 

“Tim Mannahan,” replied McGuffin, as he folded up 
his mail and stowed it away in his pocket. 

It was well that McGuffin had something to divert 
his attention, for if he had been looking at Burt Lester 
when he mentioned the old postmaster’s name, he would 
have seen the color go and come out of that distinguished 
looking gentleman’s face so rapidly that he certainly 
would have suspected something was wrong. Harry 
Baine’s quick eye discovered that some startling revela- 
tion had been made, by the confusion that Burt mani- 
fested. But his startled and confused manner was only 
of a moment’s duration, and then he was himself 
again. 

The journey to McGuffin’s was finally over, and our 
two friends were conducted into the large and very 
poorly furnished house. 

There was one exception, however ; the parlor bed- 
room was indeed richly furnished with an expensive 
carved bedroom set complete. Divan, chairs and brus- 
sels carpet to match. The room was a large one, and in 
the center hung an elegant chandelier with four lamps, 
plenty large enough for his parlor, but the parlor had 
no chandelier of any kind. Two windows opened from x 
this room, one on to a veranda and the other overlooked 
a large beautiful yard that stretched away from the 
house to the eastward. True, this yard, like the stately 
house, bore the impress of neglect indelibly stamped on 
every hand. 

The detectives were escorted to this room immedi- 
ately, and told by the Phenomenal that supper would be 


THE MCGUFFIN FABM. 


227 


ready as soon as they were ready for it. “ Here you will 
find water and towels with which to wash. My house, 
gentlemen,” he went on, “ is not furnished. We don’t 
pretend to be a livin’ here yet, only a staying.” 

“ Why, I am sure,” said Harry, “ this room is elegantly 
furnished.” 

“ This room,” replied McGuffin, bluntly, “is not the 
house. So far as this bedroom is concerned it is what 
C. McGuffin calls a furnished room. I do nothing by 
halves, by thunder I don’t, and you can bet your lives if 
I run for Congress it will be done thorough ; no half- 
way work in mine.” At this McGuffin looked wise and 
laughed a short “ hoff-goff ” chuckle, and slapped his 
pocket in his pompous way. 

The two detectives joined in complimenting the Phe- 
nomenal on the appropriateness of the remark, and the 
pleased look he wore when he took himself away, 
convinced them that they had rubbed the hair in the 
right direction. 

“ Well, isn’t he a trump ?” said Harry, softly. 

“ Yes,” replied Burt, in almost a whisper, “ but there 
is a wicked, unscrupulous gleam in the old chap’s eye 
that I don’t relish.” 

“ Oh, that is your fancy,” said Harry, jokingly, 
“ perhaps you imagine he is the black phantom you saw 
in your dream. By-the-way, Burt, what in the world 
was the matter with you when we left the post-office? I 
thought for a moment that you were going to have an 
ague shake.” 

“Not so loud, Harry, my boy.. You must be more 
cautious. I will tell you after supper all about what 
agitated me so, and if your eyes don’t open, then I am 
mistaken. There goes the bell — I presume it is supper, 
but I could not eat a morsel to save my life. I will lay 
• down here on this divan and play sick, and it will not be 
hard work to play it to-night, for I do feel miserable. 
Tell them that I am dyspeptic and subject to spells, and 
that I have a spell to-night.” 

“This is bad luck,” said Harry, “ you do look well- 
nigh used up, Burt, but would not a good cup of coffee 
help you ?” 


228 


THE MCGUFFIN FARM. 


“ No, nothing will help me but rest. Here comes 
McGuffin now.” 

“ Supper is ready, gentlemen,” said the Phenomenal, 
as he appeared in the doorway. 

Harry briefly explained to him his companion’s dys- 
peptic inclinations, and of his suddenly taking ill, and a* 
he did so dampened his handkerchief with cold water 
and laid it carefully on Burt’s forehead. 

“ Well, that’s devilish bad luck, it is, by thunder,” 
said McGuffin, in as sympathizing a tone as he could 
command. 

On the way out to the supper table McGuffin, by 
way of explanation, said to Harry that, unexpectedly, a 
brother of his had come that afternoon, who was not a 
very prepossessing sort of an individual. 

The facts were : Old Hinchey had shown up at the 
McGuffin farm that very afternoon, much to the Phe- 
nomenal’s annoyance. What his object was for coming 
can be told in a few words. It will be remembered that 
McGuffin had consented to pay the old ’Possum ten 
thousand dollars to put Tobs and little Penfield Pem- 
brooke out of the way, and Hinchey concluded he would 
come and do the job so far as Tobs was concerned, and 
get half the price agreed on. That much he wished to 
make sure of, for he feared his wealthy brother might 
change his mind, especially if anything happened that 
he did not run for Congress. 

Why McGuffin recognized and introduced old 
Hinchey as his brother was simply because the old ’Pos- 
sum had insisted that it should be that way. 

Harry was introduced to Mrs. McGuffin and Henry 
McGuffin. 

“ And this gentleman,” said Harry, pointing to Tobs, 
who stood near by, “you have not introduced me to 
him.” 

“Oh, that is Tobs, my coachman,” replied McGuffin, 
hastily. “ Take this seat, Mr. Gibbs.” 

Harry would have liked very much to have been in- 
troduced to Tobs, so that he could have had an excuse 
io give him a friendly shake. 

The letter, which old Tim cautiously slipped Tobs, 


A MIDNIGHT VISIT TO THE CLIFF. 


229 


was from Harry, and it explained enough, so that he 
knew there was something in the wind. “ Something 
usually his hin the wind, you know,” mused Tobs to 
himself, “ when you see so deuced many bloody buz- 
zards about.” 


CHAPTER XXII. 


A MIDNIGHT VISIT TO THE CLIFF. 

HAT evening, when Harry Baine had finished his 



supper and returned to “ the furnished room,” 


as his lordship, the Phenomenal, called it, he 
carefully closed and fastened the door. 

Burt Lester was uneasily walking the room when he 
returned, but soon after drew a chair close beside the 
divan where Harry Baine had thrown himself, after 
lighting one of McGuffin’s twenty-five cent cigars. 

Burt then commenced in a low, hushed voice, and 
spoke as follows : 

“ You wondered, old boy, what it was that excited me 
so this evening. I will tell you the story, and then you 
will understand. 

“A good many years ago there lived in Warwick- 
shire, England, near the grand old ruins of Kenilworth, 
an Irish gentleman of great wealth, by the name of Pat- 
rick Mannahan. When a young man he married an 
Englishwoman, the youngest child of a very wealthy, 
aristocratic family. He was poor when he married her, 
and without expectations, but death commenced its re- 
morseless work and kept it up until Patrick Mannahan’s 
wife was the only living representative of the once rich 
and proud family of Barretsons. Hence this Irishman, 
Patrick Mannahan, through his wife came into possession 
of the Barretson estate, but not, however, without some 
trouble occasioned by a would-be disputing claimant, a 
young man, who bore the Barretson name, and who was 
a cousin of Mrs. Mannahan. 


230 


A MIDNIGHT VISIT TO THE CLIFF. 


“ It was finally decided by the courts in Mrs. Manna- 
han’ s favor. It provided, however, that if Mrs. Manna*- 
han should die without male issue or male representative, 
then this would-be claimant and cousin, should, by the 
chancery decree, be the heir to Barret Hall. 

“ This Irish gentleman and his English bride lived 
happily together for many years. Four children were 
born to them — two sons and two daughters. The oldest 
son bore the name Barretson Mannahan, and the second 
son the name of Timothy Mannahan. 

“ The daughters’ names were respectively Emily and 
Alice, the former of whom was at least ten or a dozen 
years older than Alice, the youngest child. 

“ Timothy Mannahan and his sister, Emily, came to 
America over thirty years ago, and soon after reaching' 
this country they became estranged, because of her 
marrying a man whom her brother disliked with the 
stinging bitterness of hate. 

“ The younger sister, Alice, soon after her parents’ 
death married a man by the name of Daniel Lester, and 
is, therefore, my own mother, and Timothy Mannahan is 
my uncle.” 

“ Do you think,” said Harry, greatly agitated, 
“ that ” 

“Yes,” interrupted Burt, “I do think that this old 
postmaster is my lost uncle. But let me go on with my 
story. After my mother’s marriage, she and my father 
emigrated to Ireland, where in younger days her father 
had lived, and where a number of his relatives still re- 
sided. About fifteen years ago, while I was a mere lad, 
my uncle, Barretson Mannahan, who never had been 
married, died, and of course my uncle, Timothy, would 
naturally succeed him, could he be found. 

“ Harlan Barretson, who had, when a young man, dis- 
puted my mother’s claim, appeared on the scene and 
produced affidavits and such proof as satisfied the court 
that my uncle, Timothy Manahan, was dead and had 
been for a number of years. He, therefore, in due time, 
was declared the heir according to the decision of the 
court years before. 

“Ten years ago my father emigrated to America and 


A MIDNIGHT VISIT TO THE CLIFF. 


231 


found a home in Cinapolis. Although I was still quite 
young, I succeeded at last in connecting myself with the 
Pinkerton Detective Agency, and was successful in 
making myself useful, and, if I do say it, proved myself 
a valuable man. 

“ My object was to find mv uncle, Timothy Manna- 
had, for my mother believed firmly, and does to this day, 
that he is still alive. If I have asked the question, ‘ Do 
you know any one by the name of Timothy Mannahan ?’ 
once, I know that I have asked it a thousand times. 

“ My operations since then have carried me not only 
all over the United States, but also over England and 
most of the European continent, but never before have I 
felt that success was about to crown my long search.” 

“Could you not,” asked Harry, “have found out 
something from your mother’s sister, Emily, who, you 
say, resided in New York?” 

“ That,” replied Burt, “ is just where the first missing 
link occurred. My Uncle Timothy never mentioned her 
husband’s name in any of his letters. He only said that 
Emily had married a man who was a Wall Street gamb- 
ler and that he had disowned her as a sister, and was try- 
ing to forget her. Hence you can see, Harry, unless I 
can find my Uncle Timothy, I can never hope to learn 
who my Aunt Emily married.” 

“ But you believe,” said Harry, encouragingly, 
“that you have at last found your uncle, Timothy Man- 
nahan ?” 

“Yes,” replied Burt, at last, at last — and God grant 
that I am not mistaken.” 

“Amen!” responded Harry, earnestly. 

“ Now I have something to tell you, Burt, old fellow, 
and after I am through, then we can get down to some 
definite plan of operation.” 

The two commenced a whispered conversation, but 
suddenly stopped to listen to some moving noise in 
the large unfurnished appartment into which their room 
opened. 

For a moment all was silent, then a shuffling sound, 
as if some one was walking stealthily across the uncar- 
peted floor, was heard. 


232 


A MIDNIGHT VISIT TO THE CLIFF. 


“The door is securely locked, is it not ?” whispered 
Burt. 

“ Yes,” was Harry’s almost inaudible reply, while he 
strained his ears to catcli the muffled sound again. 

Burt arose from his chair, and motioning to his com- 
panion to follow, moved noiselessly across the carpeted 
floor to the window, which overlooked the broad yard. 
As silently as the working of a shadow on the wall, 
Burt lifted the lower sash clear of the window, and 
stepped outside, closely followed by Harry. 

The sash was then replaced in a temporary manner, 
and the two detectives stole softly away into the dark- 
ness. 

Burt directed his steps to a large pile of rails that 
had been unloaded in an irregular fashion, and after re- 
connoitering for a few moments, seated himself and bade 
Harry to do likewise, at the same time observing that 
“ While eavesdroppers are straining their ears at our bed- 
room door, we will talk in safety here, and take a deal of 
comfort thinking how we outwitted them.” 

“ Have you an easy seat ?” 

“Yes, as it were, as Willets would remark,” replied 
Harry. “ This confounded rail is trying hard to become 
more intimate with my bones than I really like.” 

“ Sit up higher,” said Burt, “ on the flat surface of 
this large rail — there, now, I know you are easier, and 
can begin at the very beginning and tell me all.” 

Harry Baine then commenced at the time George 
Tobias, McGuffin’s coachman, came to Dairyfield Farm 
on a visit, and narrated all the suspicions that Tobs en- 
tertained concerning McGuffin, and that he was only 
remaining with the Phenomenal with a view of finding 
out such facts as would enable him to recover the three 
thousand dollars and interest, which he firmly believed 
had been pilfered away from him. 

“ I tell you, Burt, this Englishman, Tobs, or Uncle 
George Tobias as I should call him, is a mighty shrewd 
man. I know that he would have shook me all over in 
a joyful greeting had I not given him a warning look. 
I endeavored to get the Phenomenal to give me an in- 


A MIDNIGHT VISIT TO THE CLIFF. 


233 


troduction, when I went out to supper, but he wouldn’t 
take the hint. 

“ While I am on the ‘ confession block,’ if a pile of 
fence rails may be so termed, I will tell you something 
else.” 

Harry then went on and told Burt fully of his lengthy 
conversation with Willets, and of the Inimitable’s con- 
victions that an old man who was known as Hinchey 
was the real felon. He told him that little Penfield 
Pembrooke had been found, and was attending Emily 
Willets’s school at the present time, and that the stranger 
who came to Hampton to see Willets was none other 
than ’Rilla Tobias’ brother Richard, who for a number 
of years served in the capacity of slave to this inhuman 
evil spirit known as old Hinchey, and who seemingly 
held a power over him through the influence of liquor, 
but now Richard had reformed and his reformation was 
brought about through the prayers of little Pen Pem- 
brooke. He also stated that a re-union had been ar- 
ranged to take place at Grandfather Pembrooke’s, some 
time in June. 

Willets and his sister Emily were going, and Richard 
and Pen were to accompany them, but neither Grand- 
father Pembrooke, Kittie or ’Rilla were to know that 
any one but Willets and his sister were coming. 

“ By George, old boy,” said Burt, enthusiastically, 
“ you and I ought to be there, too, and then it would be 
a reunion.” 

“That is just what I am thinking,” replied Harry, 
the darkness preventing Burt from seeing the crimson 
flush that mantled to his companion’s handsome face. 

“Oh, that is pleasant enough to talk about,” said 
Burt, after a moment’s silence, “but it is impossible, for 
we have a good many irons in the fire just now, and if 
we don’t look mighty sharp some of them will burn.” 

While they were still talking, a dark figure in crawl- 
ing posture moved carefully over the weedy yard, and 
approached from the rear the very pile of rails on which 
they were seated. Nearer and nearer it came, but with 
so much cat-like caution and stealth that the detectives 
were wholly unconscious that a companion was joining 


234 


A MIDNIGHT VISIT TO THE CLIFF. 


them. Presently, the dark figure stood erect, and then 
walked boldly up to the consulting shadows, saying as 
he did so in a suppressed voice, “ Hit’s Tobs, hit s Tobs ; 
keep still ; hit’s Tobs, you know.” 

“ Well, I’ll be knocked down with a feather,” ejacu- 
lated Harry, after he had sufficiently recovered to speak r 
and grasp Tobs’ hand in a friendly embrace. A sober { 
conversation was then entered into by the three. Tobs 
in his “ Hinglish way ” told them that he had accidentally 
discovered that the old man McGuffin’s brother was 
none other than old Hinchey, the bandit, who was with- 
out doubt the king of heartless murderers. 

Tobs declared his belief in the statement made by 
McGuffin that they were brothers, but assured our 
detective friends that mischief was brewing somewhere ; 
for McGuffin and the old man, whoever he is, had not 
as yet retired, but were in the kitchen, sitting very close 
together and talking very low. 

“ You two remain here,” said Burt, “and I will go 
and reconnoitre a little, and if they are talking about us, 

I will try and find out what they think of The Herald , , 
the leading political paper of the Second District.” 

Burt crept away into the darkness, while Tobs, seat- 
ing himself by Harry, waited in silence for the detective’s 
return. 

A full hour passed by and still they waited, as 
motionless as statues, only being able to hear the loud 
beating of their own hearts. 

All at once Burt stood before them, as if he had sud- 
denly sprung up out of the ground. He seated himself, 
and with his handkerchief wiped the great beads of per- 
spiration that trickle down his face, and then in a half 
audible whisper, said: “Boys, there is fearful mischief 
brewing. That is old Hinchey, sure enough, and I will 
bet my life that McGuffin and he are brothers. They 
suspect us, Harry ; that is, old Hinchey does, and I am 
satisfied we will get no ‘ pedigree ’ out of McGuffin ; while 
as to you, Tobs, I saw five thousand dollars counted out 
by McGuffin, and given over to old Hinchey, which was 
the old villain’s price for spilling your blood. They 
think you know too much.” 

This announcement almost lifted the Englishman 


A MIDNIGHT VISIT TO THE CLIFF. 


235 


out of his boots, and only with the utmost effort did lie 
keep from crying out. Every bone in his body seemed 
loose at the joints, he trembled so violently, while iiis 
teeth sounded like a stifled rattle box. 

“ Look here, Uncle George/' said Harry, “ this won’t 
do ; you are in safe hands with us, and you can thank 
your stars that Mr. Lester here was so fortunate as to 
learn of the impending danger.” 

“I want you, Tobs,” said Burt, with great firmness 
in his suppressed voice, “ to lead the way to the cliff in 
McGuffin’s back pasture. Come on, don’t waste a mo- 
ment s time.” 

Tobs climbed silently down from his perch and glided 
away, closely followed by Harry and Burt. 

After about fifteen minutes' rapid walking, Tobs 
stopped, and in a low voice said, “ This is the past- 
ure.” 

“ Is it the pasture where the horses are kept?” ques- 
tioned Burt. 

“Yes, sir, hit his,” replied Tobs. 

“Then,” said the detective, “ this is the place. Their 
plan is this: McGuffin will call you early to-morrow 
morning, before sun-up, and direct you to come after 
the horses. Old Hinchey will be ready for a morning’s 
walk and accompany you to this cliff. He will then ask 
you to show him where the place is that they call the 
‘Devil’s Slide,’ and the moment you get near enough he 
will hurl you over the precipice. Now, show me,” con 
tinued Burt, “ where that wonderful slide is.” 

“ You hare within twenty feet hov hit now, you know,” 
replied Tobs. “ There hit his.” 

As he said this he pointed to a shelf rock, that seemed 
to be perfectly level, but the moment any considerable 
weight rested thereon, it would tip up and precipitate its 
load over into the chasm below. 

Tobs explained to them that it was fully fifty feet 
down to the large black pool of stagnant water be- 
low. 

A regular basin, of perhaps ten acres in dimensions, 
comprised this stagnant lake. At the farther side, a 
small stream ran by, but only afforded an outlet in rainy 


236 


A MIDNIGHT VISIT TO THE CLIFF. 


seasons, when the waters of the lake were swollen be- 
yond a given water mark. 

Loose stones studded the course of the almost per- 
pendicular slide, and neither man nor beast could go 
down that rocky descent without being terribly bruised 
and mangled, and in all probability killed, before reach- 
ing the waters, below, and if life was not already extinct, 
the chances were about ninety-nine in a hundred they 
would be so stunned with bruises that they would stran- 
gle at once and drown. 

“ Over this death slide,” said Burt to Tobs, “they 
propose to throw you. We, on the other hand, propose 
to thwart their wicked and murderous plans. You and 
Tobs go back, now, to the house, and each get to your 
rooms as best yon can. To-morrow morning, Tobs, you 
come for the horses, and try and seem pleased to have 
Hinchey accompany you. Rest assured you will find 
me here, for I will not leave the cliff until you come.” 

Harry remonstrated, but Burt was determined. “ You 
tell them,” said he, “in the morning, that I am still feel- 
ing poorly and want no breakfast, and thus account for 
my absence.” 

Harry removed the cartridges from his own revolver, 
and gave them to Burt, saying, “You might possibly 
need an extra round . ” They then shook hands warmly, 
and in company with Tobs, Harry stole back to his 
room, entering it through the window as he and Burt a 
few hours before had left it. 

The light still burned low in one lamp of the chan- 
delier. 

Harry’s first act, after fastening the window securely, 
was to refill the cylinder of his revolver with fresh car- 
tridges, and then, without undressing, threw himself 
down on the bed to rest, but not to sleep. He could not 
dismiss from his mind the thought that brave Burt was 
in great danger. 

The hours wore slowly on, and just as the first faint 
ray of approaching day appeared in the eastern horizon, 
he heard McGuffin call in a loud tone to Tobs to get 
up and bring the horses from the pasture. 


A MIDNIGHT VISIT TO THE CLIFF. 


237 


Harry unlocked his door, and stole softly out 
through the large parlor, and called to Mr. McGuffin : 

“ Hallo ! by thunder, you up already ?” said the 
Phenomenal, approaching. 

“ I heard you talking,” replied Harry, “ and came out 
to say that Mr. Hamlin put in a very miserable night, 
indeed, but has now fallen into quite a restful sleep, and 
would you please not call us for breakfast until about 
nine o’clock. I myself,” continued Harry, “ have not 
slept a wink all night long, but now that Mr. Hamlin is 
resting I guess I will try and sleep awhile, providing, 
that is, Mr. McGuffin, it will not inconvenience you any 
to have our breakfast served at that hour ?” 

“ Not a particle of trouble, Mr. Gibbs ; you just take 
your snooze until nine, and if the children don't keep 
quiet around the house, why, by thunder, I’ll make ’em.” 

“ Thank you, very much,” said Harry, withdrawing 
to his own room and locking the door. This done, he 
crossed over to the window and looked out just in time 
to see old Hinchey joinTobs, as that British descendant 
started across the back yard toward the pasture. 

They were too far from his window for him to hear 
what was said, but Tobs seemingly had invited Hinchey 
to take a walk with him, and it no doubt cost faithful 
Tobs several cold shivers to thus carry out his part of 
the programme. 

Just as they started, McGuffin came up and detained 
them a moment by asking some trivial question of Tobs. 
“ It might be such a thing, Tobs,” said McGuffin, in his 
usual loud voice, “ that I will go away before you come 
back from the pasture, I don’t say I will, but then I 
might, and for fear I shouldn’t see you again I will say 
good-by.” As he said this, he extended his hand, which 
Tobs accepted. Then Hinchey and his victim started 
past ureward, and the Phenomenal turned back to the 
house. 

What, thought Harry, could have prompted McGuf- 
fin to do this? After paying a price for this faithful 
servant’s blood, yet loath to part with him without say- 
ing farewell ! Did he hear a whispering voice say, 
“You are not doing right?” Was it a troubled con- 


238 


A MIDNIGHT VISIT TO THE CLIFF. 


science? Was it innate compassion, that prompted this 
leave-taking? What was it, that thus rebelled against 
the decision rendered by selfish ambition ? 

Oh, man of the world, when will you learn to respect 
the dictates of conscience and follow in the path your 
better self tells you is right ? When will you cease to 
blunt and dull the finer feelings of your nature, the 
handiwork of an Allwise God ? When will you cease 
to stifle the voice of sympathy and compassion that cries 
out in behalf of your brother man ? When will you 
learn that selfishness is the germ of dishonesty, and 
that one dishonest act ripens you in a day for untold 
deeds of felony ? 

When will you learn that “ It profiteth a man noth- 
ing though he gain the whole world, and lose his own 
soul ?” 

When will you learn that it is “Not all of life to 
live nor ail of death to die?” When will you learn 
that the 

“ Love of glittering fashion and display, 

Like the canker, the moth and the rust 
Will sooner or later die and wither away 

And you will be laid with your father’s dust.” 

McGuffin turned and looked after the villainous de- 
stroyer and the object of destruction as they moved 
away, then leaning his head against his hands closed 
his eyes as if he fain would shut out the pale spectre of 
that faithful servant’s face, which prophetically he al- 
ready could see grinning at him through the ghastly 
skull of a tormenting memory. 

While Tobs, on the other hand, walked briskly along 
with his fawnkig companion, shrouded in a deep gloom 
and a fear of a horrible death. 

Like phantoms his feelings crouched along the path 
and kept pace with his feet, and with their gaunt and 
bony hands tugged with a Goliath’s strength at the 
anchor of his hope. 


THE DOUBLE TRAGEDY, 


239 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


THE DOUBLE TRAGEDY AT THE CLIFF. 

FEW minutes after McGuffin had ceased watch- 



ing the retreating forms of old Hinchey and 


Tobs, the window -sash was again removed from 
the window of the bedroom occupied by Harry Baine, 
and cautiously he stepped out, with two small portman- 
teaus, which, in the gray light of early morning, he car- 
ried to the rail pile on which he had rested the night 
before, and with great haste secreted them. This done, 
he retraced his steps to the window for a moment, 
and then, after adjusting the sash, walked cautiously 
away, following the path that led to the pasture, along 
which he hastened until he came to the edge of some 
deep copsewood. Here he paused a moment, and ex- 
amined the cartridges of his Colt’s “ navy.” 

Just as he started on again, he came suddenly against 
the tall figure of a man, with a fish-pouch thrown across 
his shoulder, who was just emerging from a bowery 
path that led through the deep underbrush. 

The surprise was mutual, and the tall gentleman was 
the first to speak. 

“ Sure, now, and where could ye’s be afther walkin’ 
to so early in the mornin’, I don't know ?” 

Harry recognized the old postmaster, Tim Mannahan, 
at once, and, in a low, but considerably agitated voice, 
said, “ You are the village postmaster, are you not?” 

“ Sure an’ I am,” was Tim’s curt reply, “ but,” he 
continued, “ who the divil is ye’s, I don’t know.” 

“ Your friend,” said Harry. 

“Och, an’ ye’r after talkin'’ very smooth to old Tim, 
sure.” 

“ Do you,” asked Harry, “ remember your sister 
Alice ?” 

Tim gave a very noticeable start when this question, 
so unexpected, was hurled at him, and stammered out, 
“Well, sure, sir, and I might be afther rememberin’ 
her, and agin I mightn’t.” 


240 


THE DOUBLE TRAGEDY. 


“You have one brother, who is older than you,” said 
Harry, in a knowing manner, “tell me his given name 
at once.” 

“ Well, now, sure,” said Tim, “ I don’t know why I 
should be afther ” 

“ Answer my question at once,” said Harry, impa- 
tiently, “and do not dare to equivocate.” As he made this 
stern demand he threateningly grasped the hilt of his 
revolver. 

“Barretson Mannahan, sure,” answered Tim, tremb- 
lingly, “ and I was going to tell ye’s all the time, I was, 
sure.” 

Harry then hurriedly told him of the danger that 
threatened Tobs, but told him nothing of Burt Lester’s 
story. 

They hurried on until they carne near the cliff, and 
then approached more cautiously, but not a sound could 
they hear. The silence of nature was unbroken. 

Harry Baine took one hasty, sweeping glance at the 
picturesque scenery around, the dewy grass, the leafy 
trees, the clinging vines, the snowy blossoms, the twit- 
tering songs of early birds, the occasional hum of wings 
made by some flitting thrush, the early flowers at his 
feet, laughing in a dewy smile, the woodlands beyond, 
boldly jutting down to the water’s edge on the opposite 
side of the lake, the stately oaks that had withstood the 
storms of many winters and enjoyed the warm showers 
and bright sunshine of each succeeding summer, the 
undergrowth, like children of the parent forest trees, all 
so quiet and motionless. Not a breath of air stirring a 
single twig or leaf. The shimmering waters of the lake 
lay discernible between overhanging boughs. All these 
he saw at a single glance about him, but they could not 
remove the heavy forebodings that hung about his heart 
like a black pall. 

They approached the slide, and cautiously looked 
about them. 

“ Faith, and look here,” said old Tim, “ the dew is 
all knocked off the grass sure. Holy Virgin protect 
us !” 


THE DOUBLE TRAGEDY. 


241 


“ Is there any way by which we can get down to the 
water’s edge ?” asked Harry, in a trembling voice. 

“ Yes, come this way, sure, and I’ll be afther taking 
you there.” 

The old postmaster seemed familiar with the by- 
paths, for he had a custom of frequenting this lake at 
early hours in the morning to gather in the fish from 
trout lines he had, without the Phenomenal McGuffin s 
knowledge, planted at different places in the lake. 

A few moment’s walk down a circuitous and steep 
descent, thickly overhung with intermingling boughs, 
brought them to the water’s edge. Old Tim then lifted 
a boat from a sunken cavity near by, and launched it, 
stepped softly in, and motioned Harry to follow. 

Old Tim proved himself a skillful oarsman, and soon 
the projecting cliff was turned, and there a sight met 
their eyes that almost drove them wild. 

In the encounter at the top of a cliff, Burt on the 
outset received a stunning blow from old Hinchey that 
well-nigh blinded him. He came to his feet quickly, 
however, but in the darkness grappled with Tobs, in- 
stead of with the old ’Possum. This gave Hinchey an 
advantage, and although he was old, yet he was far from 
being inactive. He watched his opportunity until the 
contestants neared the fatal ledge of rock, and then with 
catlike quickness and with all his strength, rushed 
against them. 

They fell over in a clenched embrace on the treacher- 
ous slide, and in a moment more went tumbling down, 
down, to the waters below. But old Hinchey had 
underestimated his strength, for when he pushed them 
over he went sprawling like an acrobat far over their 
heads. 

Fortune seems at times to favor the wicked in their 
dark deeds, as it did in this case with him, for instead of 
falling with his unfortunate victims, he was caught in 
the tangle of a grape vine. 

He caught hold of the vine and attempted to raise 
himself hand over hand, to the cliff again, but the vine 
commenced slipping from its entwined fastenings, and 
gradually lowered him down to a ledge of overhanging 

14 


242 


THE DOUBLE TRAGEDY. 


rock, not more than fifteen or twenty feet from the sur- 
face of the water. 

When Burt Lester and Tobs reached the water below, 
they were still clasped in each other’s embrace. For- 
tunately, the late April showers had been plentiful 
during the preceding week, and the water was at its 
highest mark. 

They let go their hold on one another as they fell 
into the deep water. Both had received some terrible 
gashes and bruises in the fall, but momentarily revived. 
Tobs caught a broken vine that was fasted to a gnarly 
oak growing near the very ledge of rock which old 
Hinchey was lowered to, while Burt swung himself 
upon a floating log, and then consciousness left him. 

It will be remembered that old Hinchey had never 
before seen Burt Lester, and he was at a loss to know 
who the stranger was who had meddled with his busi- 
ness. “Though I must say,” he muttered to himself, as 
he gazed on the stunned and half-drowning men below 
him, “ that the young man did me good service. Perhaps, 
though, he had a grudge at Tobs himself.” 

The Phenomenal McGufFin had told the old ’Possum 
that Tobs could not swim a single stroke, and as soon as 
Hinchey discovered that the drowning man hung to a 
vine that was fastened to a limb within his reach, he was 
at once supremely happy. He forthwith loosened it, then 
holding to the end, he played and toyed with poor 
Tobs like a cat might do with a crippled mouse. 

As Harry Baine and old Tim Mannahan rowed in 
sight of this picture, they were for a moment dumb- 
founded. There stood the ghastly, grinning Hinchey, 
toying with Tobs on the rack, looking down with 
fiendish delight on the ruinous work of his villainous 
planning. 

Tobs was begging with a weak, exhausted voice for 
life, but had he appealed to the hearts of the gray rocks 
that towered up before him he would have softened them 
as quickly as Hinchey’s. 

Not a sympathetic lineament hovered on the old 
villain’s face. Not a chord of pity was touched in his 


THE DOUBLE TRAGEDY. 


248 


stony heart. Surely his conscience was “ seared over as 
with a hot iron.” 

The old sun just then peeped over the eastern hills 
and flung its searching glance of scrutiny over the land- 
scape and fell full in old Hinchey’s face. It so blinded 
him that he did not see the approaching boat until Tobs 
was caught up in Harry’s strong arms, and then with 
the swiftness of an arrow old Tim shot the boat toward 
the bleeding and unconscious form of poor Burt Lester. 
He was quickly lifted from the floating log and laid 
carefully in the small craft, with his gashed and bruised 
head resting on Harry Baine’s lap. 

Then Harry and Tim at the same instant turned and 
looked toward the ledge of rock on which the demon 
Hinchey had stood only a few moments before. Had he 
been the evil spirit he could not have disappeared more 
mysteriously. 

They effected a landing and carefully searched the 
cliff, but could find no trace of him whatever. 

The boat was then re-entered and rowed to the east 
shore of the lake, where a low beach skirted the waters, 
thickly shaded by all kinds of forest trees. 

Tobs’ wounds were severe, and he had lost consider- 
able blood, but, notwithstanding all this, he retained 
consciousness, though well nigh exhausted. 

Burt lay in an unconscious state, as he did for many 
days after. When a landing was effected, he was gently 
carried ashore, and placed on a mossy plot of ground 
beneath the shady boughs of a large sycamore tree. 
Near by lay Tobs. 

“Now, sure,” said Tim, “ye’ll be after watching ’em, 
and it’s meself that will bring a docther,” and without 
waiting for a reply from Harry, he darted away, and was 
soon lost sight of in the clustering, leafy forest. 

In about half an hour, Harry heard the whir of car- 
riage wheels. A little later old Tim returned, and as he 
did so, said, “Faith, and I was afther bringing a carriage, 
sure. It is only a step to the road, be dad. Give me a 
hand, now, and we will be afther carryin’ the faintin' 
chap out.” 

Soon after, Burt Lester’s almost lifeless form was 


244 


THE DOUBLE TRAGEDY. 


placed in the carriage, in Harry Baine’s care, who pil- 
lowed his unfortunate companion’s head on his lap. 
Tobs and Tim took the other seat. 

The driver seemed to know where to go, and started 
slowly on. 

In about an hour’s time the carriage stopped before 
a very comfortable and cozy looking cottage, on the 
slope of a hill that overlooked the Miils. It had a little 
orchard stretching down in front, and a neat tasty gar- 
den on the rising ground at the back. To the left, a 
short distance, was a high rocky bluff, the summit of 
which was crowned by a huge bolder. About half way 
between this bluff and the cottage, stood a lone mulberry 
tree that was dead at the top, with, however, a few of 
its lower limbs ladened with shady leaves. 

To the eastward, a little way along the river bottom, 
nestled the cottages that comprised the village known 
as the Mills. Beyond the village, and to the left, the 
iron bridge that spanned the river could be seen, and 
still further to the left the time-stained roof and gable 
of the old Mill was plainly discernible, and always, 
whether day or night time, the ceaseless, steady roar of 
falling waters over the dam could be heard. 

“This lady,” said Tim to Harry, after Burt had been 
carried in and Tobs assisted to a large easy chair, “is 
the Widow O’Riley. Perhaps you might have heard of 
her, and while she may blush when I say it, yet, bedad, 
it’s afther being the truth that she is the foinest 
lady in the state, and sure she will nurse the lad back to 
loife, if it can be done by living man. Now I have got 
to go and be afther opening up the post-office, but sure 
an’ I’ll see you again this evening. The Missus,” con- 
tinued Tim, turning to Widow O’Riley, “will take good 
care that neither of the three are after goin’ out o’ door 
the livelong day ?” 

“ Och, Tim,” replied Mrs. O’Riley, “go along wid 
ye. Faith, and ye know well that yer horders will be 
kept sure.” 

At this Tim took his departure, and soon after the 
physician came. He shook his head, but said nothing, 
as he examined and dressed Burt’s wounds. He then 


THE DOUBLE TRAGEDY. 


245 


dressed George Tobias’s gashes, which were more flesh 
wounds than aught else, while Burt had several very 
aggravating wounds, especially a deep ugly gash which 
extended clear over his head from side to side. The 
physician took Mrs. O’Riley aside and gave her instruc- 
tions for the care of the patients; then he returned to 
the room, and with Harry Baine’s assistance, Burt was 
removed to a large, well- ventilated bed-room in another 
part of the house. 

That evening Harry had a long talk with his timely 
acquaintance, old Tim, and unhesitatingly told him Burt 
Lester’s story. 

“ Then,” said Tim, when Harry had concluded, “the 
lad is me own nephew.” As the old man said this, he 
wiped the moisture from his eyes. 

“ Yes,” replied Harry, “ your sister Alice is his mother, 
and she is a good, motherly woman too. Her family 
reside in Cinapolis, and I had the pleasure of visiting 
them for several days in company with poor Burt 
here.” 

“Faith, and me nephew has been after risking his 
head for these many years in the detective business to 
find his old Uncle Tim, sure?” 

“Yes, sir,” replied Harry, “and through you he ex- 
pected to also learn the whereabouts of his aunt Emily. 
It seems that you never gave the gentleman’s name 
whom your sister EmMy married.” 

“ Perhaps, sir, I have been afther committin’ a great 
wrong,” said Tim thoughtfully. “ Sure, and I have not 
written home these many, many years, but I was afther 
havin’ some mighty good reasons for playin’ hermit like 
wid my own people ; and everybody else that was 
afther a knowin’ me. I’ll jest tell you my sthory, 
sir.” 

As he said this he knocked the ashes from his pipe, 
and laid it away, so that he could the better talk. Harry 
lit a fresh cigar, and gave his whole attention to smok- 
ing it and listening to Tim, who spoke as follows : 

“ I and my sister Emily was after leaving old Eng- 
land over thirty long years ago, and, if I do say it me- 
self, there wasn’t a foiner looking lad on board the ship 


246 


THE DOUBLE TKAGEDY. 


than was Tim Mannahan, nor one that had in his day 
courted and talked swate to more pretty girls, sure. 
Well, me sister Emily and meself was after getting ac- 
quainted with a mighty slick talking chap and his sister, 
who was a young girl in her teens, and I want to be af- 
ther telling ye now, sir, that a big time it was we had a 
coming over. Their home was in New York city, and 1 
tell ye it was ilegant how they dressed. He talked swate 
to me sister, and I talked my nicest to his, sure, and 
when we were afther landing, I found it was meself that 
was the only level-headed member of the quarthet. The 
slick-talking New Yorker had fallen heels over head in 
love with me sister Emily and she, begorra, was heart- 
broken at the very thoughts of partin’ wid him. With 
meself it was only a flirtation, sure ; but would you be- 
lave it, the little dark-eyed Katie (that was her name), 
was afther being in real earnest, and thought I meant all 
the honeyed words I had whispered to her. 

“Faith, sir, she was a beautiful girrul. Young and 
romantic loike, her fresh and budding affections couldn’t 
stand, though, the fire of me own polished talk. Those 
moonlight walks on the old ship’s deck, the low", musical 
whisperings of me voice and those killing glances, that, 
if I do say it meself, Tim Mannahan could bate the 
whole world a givin’, sure, was what played the divil 
with her happiness. I was afther looking on the whole 
business as a pastime of an idle hour. Whin we parted 
in New York she was afther laying her head on this very 
breast, sure, and telling me that every word I had whisp- 
ered and every glance I had given her would be held as 
precious jewels in the sacred casket of memory, to be cher- 
ished so long as life endured, and carried down to her 
grave. I told her she was a foolish girrul, and that I was 
afther meaning nothing by me flirti ng and that she would 
soon forget me. And sure enough, before quite a year 
went over the young creature’s head, the casket of jewels 
had turned to wormwood and ashes and seasoned up to 
bate the wide world with a burning hate, and I was 
afther finding it out in this way : 

“ Soon afther raching Ameriky, me sister Emily and 
meself came on to Cinapolis, where, you say, me sister 


THE DOUBLE TRAGEDY. 


247 


Alice and her family are afther living at the present time. 
Well, Emily, in spite of all me advice to the contrary, 
kept a writing and a writing to that smooth-talking New 
York chap and, without even speaking to me about it, 
invited the spalpeen to come and join a hunting and fish- 
ing excursion that meself and others had planned. Sure, 
and she did that. And his sister Kate was just as self- 
willed as me own sister, and, by the Holy Mother, she 
came along, but a devil of a bit of attention did she 
pay to meself, and I was after being mightily pleased 
that she didn’t, for to be real honest wid ye, I was clear 
gone, boots and all, sure, in love wid an iligant lady 
who lived in Cinapoiis, and who was agoin’ along on the 
excursion. We were to be gone a month and when we 
stuck our stakes for our final camp, it was within a half 
a mile of the lake over there in McGuffin’s pasture, where 
the poor boy was afther getting well-nigh drowned this 
mornin’. Faith and everything went a swimmin’ for 
about a week afther we went into camp, except I was a 
feeling uncomfortable meself, for Katie, the black-eyed 
fiend, made it her business, sure, to be mighty smilin’ 
and purring like around Mollie Burchard, the young 
lady to whom meself was engaged to be married, and as 
the days went by Mollie got to likin’ Katie a deal of a 
sight — they were afther being loike sisters. 

“ Well, one marnin’, jist afther we had breakfasted, 
Mollie came to me where I was a standing under a shady 
tree, and says she to me, says she, ‘Tim, what makes 
your dear ould face so cloudy ?’ 

“Says I to Mollie, ‘Sure, my darling, I don’t loike 
to have you going about wid Katie.’ 

“‘Well, Tim,’ says she, ‘I’ve promised to go out and 
gather flowers with her this morning, — here she comes 
now. I will see you to-night, Tim,’ says she, and at this 
she threw a swate kiss to me with her delicate little 
white hand, and then joined Katie. 

“ To save me life, sir, I couldn’t help it, and so I just 
followed them through the heavy copsewood until they 
came to the lake, and faith, sir, I never can forget how 
like an angel Mollie looked that marnin’, standing on 
the pebbled beach with the soft breeze a fannin’ her 


248 


THE DOUBLE TRAGEDY. 


cheeks and a blowin’ her golden hair about. Ah, sure, 
sir, it was a picture that I am afther seem’ these many 
long years, whether I am awake or slaping, sure, for I 
never saw Mollie alive afther that marninV* 

Old Tim took a time-stained and faded letter from his 
pocket, and reaching it to Harry, said in a broken, husky 
voice, “ This lether, sure, will be afther tellin’ you the 
rest.” 

Harry took the offered letter, and old Tim bowed his 
head on his hands and wept in stifled sobs. 

The letter read as follows : 

“ Timothy Mannahan : — 

“ I loathe, hate and scorn you with all the bitterness of 
my being. For a time you were gentle and affectionate 
to me, and with low musical words of endearment taught 
me to love and idolize you ; then you turned away 
in your dignity, and mockingly told me that the lesson 
you had taught, and I so foolishly learned, was all a myth 
and had served its purpose in the idling way of the 
hours. Ah ! how madly I loved you, and how appropri- 
ate are Tennyson’s words, (they seemed burned and 
forever engraven on my heart, now so hardened and 
flinty), where he says : 

1 I hold it true whate’er befall — 

I feel it when I sorrow most ; 

’Tis better to have loved and lost 
Than never to have loved at all.’ 

“I came uninvited to see you, and learned before we 
met at Cinapolis that you were betrothed to Mollie Bur- 
chard, and that your whole heart was given to her. 
Then I said, the being of my unquenched love is no 
more, and the jewels of my burning affection for him 
shall be crushed into ashes and scattered from me. But 
lo ! instead of being able to throw them aside they turn- 
ed into the bitterness of wormwood, and like a consum- 
ing cancer commenced feeding on my brain ; eating, 
eating away, night and day, evening and morning, until 
I felt and knew that my reason was being dethroned, 


THE DOUBLE TRAGEDY. 


249 


and I was going mad ! But no one knew it, or suspect- 
ed it. While you slept, sweetly dreaming of her who 
never could have loved you the half that I did, I sat up- 
right in my bed with open staring eyes, and held my 
sides in suppressed mirth to think that no one knew I 
was an insane woman, or could ever guess how sweet 
to me sounded the whispered word, ‘ REVENGE/ 
which continually rings in my ears. Ah ! — 

‘ Love to my passionate soul, 

Was not like hers, a mere part 
Of her existence ; but the whole — 

The very life breath of my heart.’ 

“ Yes, my discarded affections shall be revenged this 
very day, and the sacrifice shall be she whom you love as 
madly as I once loved you. I know you will say that it 
was a pity to sacrifice her, so young, so gentle, so fair, 
so lovable, for your misdoings. But what does a mad 
woman care for pity, if her revenge secures to her the 
fullest cup ? Perhaps it is better that she should die 
young and innocent. Yes, it is better, far better than 
to learn the bitter lesson that awaits her when the ardor 
of your affections cool. 

“ Proud, arrogant, ambitious man, you did not think 
that the young, silly girl whose love you won so easily, 
and then spurned so coldly, would in one short year 
mete out to you this awful vengence. 

“ Let it teach you that a woman can hate, as she has 
loved, with her whole heart, life and soul. Let it teach 
you and all others not to trifle with the God-given pas- 
sions of a young girl’s affection. 

“ When you receive this letter, Mollie w T ill be dead. 
And oh ! how miserable will be your wailing anguish 
and the life of self-reproach that you will lead on and 
on to your grave, for before the God who permits me to 
write this letter, you are Mollie Burchard’s murderer, 
and the sweetened poison that fell from your lips not 
only causes me to perform this deed as a servant of 
destiny, but also causes me to die with her. 

“ Farewell. 


11 * 


“ Kate. 


250 


THE DOUBLE TRAGEDY. 


When Harry had finishedTeading the letter, he refolded 
and handed it back to old Tim, who, as he did so, said 
in a low, faltering voice, “ We was afther finding this 
lether in the tent about noon of the day they went away, 
and just as the sun went down that afternoon, we res- 
cued their dead and floating bodies out of the lake near 
the cliff. Come, and I will show you their graves.” 

Harry arose and followed the old man out in the 
dusk of evening to the lone mulberry tree. There a 
mossy and flower bedecked grave was indicated by a low 
slab of marble, with the names “ Mollie and Kate,” with 
the date of their untimely death inscribed thereon. 

“ For thirty -two years, sir,” said Tim, “ this has been 
my greatest care, to keep the grass growing and the 
flowers blooming on these graves. My sister Emily was 
afther marrying Katie’s brother within a month after 
this terrible tragedy, and sure I have never seen her 
since, nor heard from her.” 

“ What was the gentleman’s name whom she married? ’ 
asked Harry. 

“ Faith, sir, and I have never mentioned his name 
since he and Emily were married.” 

“Won’t you please mention it now?” asked Harry, 
persistently. 

“ Oh, sure, and it was something like Zachariah Wil- 
lets.” 

At this the old postmaster turned about, led the way 
to the cottage, and there left Harry to ponder over what 
he had heard. 

Thus week after week glided by, and in the meantime 
Tobs grew strong again, but still remained at old Tim’s 
cottage. None of the villagers were any the wiser for 
his or his companion’s being there. 

Burt Lester still lay in a half unconscious stupor * 
trembling on the scales between life and death. At times 
he revived for a little while, but his mind seemed wan- 
dering and confused. A half dozen different times had 
Harry been called by the kind nurse, Mrs. O’Riley, to 
what she thought was poor Burt’s deathbed, but he had 
as often revived. 

How is it, that many times when the body is racked 


gibbon’s place. 


251 


with pain, and floats close up to death’s door, a super- 
human strength is suddenly infused and instilled into 
the dying spirit blaze, causing it to burn up more 
brightly again ? There is a myterious, unnamed power 
that at times seems to wind up our exhausted strength, 
and again put the human mechanism in motion. 

This power, whatever it is, is resistless in its freaks 
of influencing the great mainspring of life, and turning 
the many wheels in the intricate combination of the hu- 
man body. So intricate, indeed, that to this late day of 
science it remains entrenched and undiscovered behind 
the murky clouds of the known. 

At times the human clockwork seems well-nigh robbed 
of its motive power, its tick-tock comes so feebly on, yet, 
when the slow swinging pendulum seems about to rest 
forever, an unseen spirit-hand touches the secret spring, 
and the slackened wire coil of life quivers, and regains 
its tension again. 

Oh, tell me, you wise ones of earth, you philosophers 
deep and profound, who rest your faith on science rather 
than on the Word of God, from whence comes this un- 
known power ? Ah, you are silent. Know, then, that it 
comes from God through ministering angel spirits. Ay ! 
through those white-robed idols, our beloved dead, who 
cluster around us in the silent hour of thought, and 
impel us to seek a higher and purer life. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

BASEMENT QUARTERS IN GIBBON’S PLACE. 

W HO has not had friends, or, perhaps, near rela- 
tives, who, becoming weary of the rough and 
uneven highway over which their bruised feet 
traveled, would be called to stop by the thistly way- 
side, until Father Time with his scythe came up with 
them, and then commence and ask so many questions, 
cross questions, leading questions, principal questions, 


252 


gibbon’s place. 


and subordinate questions, that the fevered patient 
would be worn almost to skin and bone. 

Even a bed of down would at last feel to their ema- 
ciated bodies like one of rocks, and whether sleeping fit- 
ful snatches of slumber, or staring at the bare walls 
around, old Father Time, with his scythe in reaping pos- 
ture, could always be seen ; and woe to the patient if he 
contradicted himself in the continuous, attorney-like 
cross questions that are hurled at him. For just so sure 
as he does, then the scythe will hastily prune off the 
patient’s thread of life from the army of the living, and 
our friend or relative passes over the silent river to join 
the great majority beyond. 

What is death ? Ah! how many have asked the ques- 
tion, how few have answered it ! 

To me, death is like the transplanting of a flower 
from my garden to my conservatory. 

In life we seem sojourning in a valley with a moun- 
tain before and behind. Through history and the 
teachings of the Bible we look far over this mountain 
behind us, and see our foreparents in the Garden of 
Eden ; all the patriarchs of old ; the children of Israel 
crossing the Red Sea ; Pharaoh and his hosts thwarted 
and drowned in their attempt to follow. 

We see Moses coming down out of the mount with 
the tables of stone on which the law was written. 

We see the Son of Man with His disciples; His 
hands raised to heal the sick, the halt, and blind. We 
hear Him blessing the chubby-faced children, and say : 
“ Of such are the Kingdom of Heaven.” We see Him 
nailed to the cross, and we see Him die a cruel and igno- 
minious death that our enfranchised spirits>might be able 
to live in that world to come. 

Yes, we turn and look to the towering mountain 
ahead of us, and through our faith in Christ Jesus we see 
the New Jerusalem, with its streets paved with bur- 
nished gold, and then we remember He has said, “ In my 
Father’s house are many mansions.” By faith in a life 
after death, the cold and barren peaks and gray rocks of 
Eternity lose all their terror to us. 

The unanswering dead can tell us nothing. But how 


gibbon’s place. 


2o3 

many times have we all seen the rigid, careworn, 
wrinkled features of those who carried a great burden in 
life closed in death, and observed the untensioning, 
calming, smoothing out of the deep furrows of care 
until a halo of contentment, even a smile of joy, seemed 
to have hovered over the face as the spirit fled, and left 
its pleased stamp thereon ? 

Who has never felt, in the silent hours of vision, the 
presence of spirit friends hovering about them ? 

Those who have not are dead to sensibilities they are 
heir to. The spirit of the dead live, and as Taylor, that 
Shakespearean divine, has beautifully said : 

“ The living are the only dead. 

The dead live — never more to die, 

And oft, when we mourn them fled. 

They never were so nigh.” 

From Burt Lester’s bed of sickness we will now lead 
you, reader, to other scenes that are being enacted by 
those you have already learned to know. 

A number of blocks away from the attic room in 
Cinapolis where old Hinchey’s headquarters at one time, 
were, there is a short by-street connecting two broader 
ones, much as the cross of a capital letter “ H ” connects 
the upright strokes. 

While this street was not in the very business center 
of the city, it was not far away. 

The buildings were all built of brick, with stone 
finish, but at the time we write, sadly on the decline. 

About midway of this street, in fact, cornering on 
the only alley the street could boast of, there stood a 
large, three-story building, which, at one time, was oc- 
cupied by the owner as a jewelry store, but that was 
long ago. 

In front of the door stood six pillars ; three near the 
building and three farther away toward the street, mak- 
ing a porch-like entrance. These columns were the 
height of one story, but immediately on top of them was 
another similar arrangement, and so on up for full three 
and a half stories, although the building itself was only 
three stories in height. 


254 


gibbon’s place. 


This peculiar addition was finished off at the top 
with a dome-like covering, and contained in front an im- 
mense clock dial, and within the machinery of a monster 
time-piece. 

Its lengthy pendulum had long since ceased to swing, 
which was discernible through the glass work in front ; 
and for the matter of that, the large wheels and small 
ones, in fact, all the gearing, could be seen from the 
opposite side of the street, and had more the appearance 
of a huge spider hanging in a web, in its now motion- 
less state, than aught else. 

But there the deserted building stood, with its great 
clock in front like an elaborate sign, as if were announc- 
ing to the world in general, and the people of Cinapolis 
in particular, the fact that the vender within had time to 
sell, either in retail parcels or job lots. 

On a certain evening, several weeks after the tragic 
affair took place on the cliff in McGuffin’s pasture, old 
Hinchey came down this by-street and turned quickly 
into the alley. 

The shades of evening were closing in rapidly, but 
he never turned to look to the right or the left, or even 
over his shoulder, in which peculiar way of looking he 
was quite an adept. 

When the rear of the building was reached, he turned 
at the corner and disappeared down a low-arched stair- 
way, then the rattling of keys and opening of doors went 
on until three doors had been opened, and after Hinchey 
passed through, carefully locked again. 

Presently the old ’Possum lit a dim light, and by its 
flickering blaze a glimpse of his new quarters could be 
seen. 

It was a basement room with no visible outlet — ex- 
cept the door — and was large and roomy. 

On a rag cot in one corner two little boys lay sleep- 
ing. “ Ah !” said Hinchey holding up the light so as to 
see the little ones, “ my little beauties are still here. 
Fine young gentlemen they are, too. Old Hinchey makes 
the dear young men very wise. If they bring home silk 
handkerchiefs and other valuables, then they get a good 
supper, but if they hang around the streets of such a 


gibbon’s place. 


255 


nice, rich city as Cinapolis all day, and not bring any- 
thing to old Hinchey, who is so very kind to them, they 
go without their supper.’' 

While the old man was still looking at them and 
musing on their probable profit to him, the little boys 
awakened. First, they blinked and blinked, and then 
yawned and stretched and rubbed their little fists in their 
waking eyes, and finally sat up on their miserable couch. 
During all this time old Hinchey watched them much as 
a fancy stock man would watch his fatted calves — only, 
God have mercy, these children were not in a fatted con- 
dition. 

Their little ribs looked like a very diminutive, many- 
hooped cask might, with the staves fallen out on one side 
and the tiny hoops fallen downward. 

Their spindling arms and legs had very large joints, 
but were very small and wasted between them. 

Their cheek bones were very prominent ; their eyes 
very large ; their little cheeks hollow and sunken ; their 
colorless lips were tightly drawn, and when they at- 
tempted to speak, their long, unkempt hair and set teeth 
made them look ghostly. 

“ Oh, please, sir,” said the oldest (who could not have 
been more than ten years old) “ we are so hungry, oh, 
what kept you so long ?” 

But instead of answering them, old Hinchey gazed on 
their emaciated, ghastly jfaces in a frenzy of delight, and 
muttered low to himself, as he set the sputtering candle 
on a shelf, and rubbed his greasy long-nailed hands to- 
gether. “Ah! what little beauties to beg. Who could 
withhold the nickels when appealed to by such starved 
looks ?” 

‘‘Nickels, did you say, you timid old rascal,” said 
Hinchey, eyeing himself in a small pocket mirror that 
hung on the wail near where the candle stood. “ You’d 
better say dimes ; yes, quarters and even half dollars. 
Who ever saw such a beautiful, appropriate look on 
beggars’ faces ?” 

“ Oh, sir, can we have some water to drink ?” asked 
the little starving boy again, “and something to eat, 
please ?” 


256 


gibbon’s place. 


“ Yes, my dears, that is just what old Hinchey was a 
going to ask the dear young gentlemen — if they wasn’t 
hungry or thirsty.” 

“ Indeed we are, sir,” both the little boys replied to- 
gether. 

“Well, you lay down again and old Hinchey will go 
bring a pitcher of water and some eatables.” 

Saying this, the villainous old man, by the aid of his 
keys withdrew from the basement quarters and thought 
very seriously, as he locked the doors, of plugging up 
the key-hole, fearful, no doubt, that the skin and bone 
frames within, who a short time before were such chub- 
by-faced, round-limbed boys, might effect their escape 
through that slight opening. 

He hurried out into the street, and bent his steps 
to an unfrequented restaurant, purchasing a few sand- 
wiches made of stale biscuits and rashers of bacon. 

As he started back to “Gibbon’s Place ” (Gibbon 
being the name of the once wealthy jeweler who erected 
the building), he did a very strange thing, for him. 

He stepped into a saloon and purchased two bottles 
of beer, which he added to the basket wherein he carried 
the sandwiches. 

At the corner, before turning into this by-place, he 
filled his pitcher with water from a public well, and then 
hurried on down the street, turned into the alley and 
disappeared. 

Just behind him a dark figure was stealthily shadow- 
ing on, on, closer and closer. 

As old Hinchey unlocked the first door, the dark 
figure was within an aim’s length of him. The door 
was finally opened, and the old ’Possum glided in and 
closed it behind him. He then applied his key, but he 
could not insert it into the lock. 

Again and again he tried, but without success. So he 
had to give it up and push on to the next door. 

The key readily unlocked it, but to lock it again 
he could not. He tried the key on the outside of the 
door, but could do no more than he could on the in- 
side. 

He pushed on to the inner door, opened it, and 


gibbon’s place. 


257 


walking to the shelf, took down the candle which he 
had extinguished before leaving, lit it, and returned to 
the outer door, bracing it thoroughly, as did he also the 
second door. 

He then tried to lock the inner door, but to no avail. 
Neither his trying or muttering oaths would avail him, 
so he contented himself with bracing the inner door as 
he had the other two. 

Then Hinchey felt contented, and proceeded to ap- 
pease the thirst and hunger of the almost famished 
boys. 

He sat with them at the board, and after each of the 
little ones were provided with a biscuit and rasher of 
bacon, the old, free-hearted villain actually tapped a 
bottle of Budwiser beer, and after filling his own glass, 
which was a very large one, he poured out a small cup- 
ful for each of “ the dear young gentlemen,” as he called 
them. 

Then, with his affected suavity of speech and ghastly 
grin, he said : “ Wall, my dear young gentlemen, here is 
to your health ” 

But where was his glass of beer? 

He looked around in time to see a tall, muscular 
man, in English dress, take the empty glass from his 
face, and as he did so, coolly remark, that it was “ bloody 
gdod beer, you know.” 

The little boys went on with their eating, caring 
more for their sandwiches than they did for the English 
stranger. 

Old Hinchey, on the other hand, was for a moment 
dumbfounded. He stared at the stranger, with his 
usually restless eyes wide open. 

Finally the stranger spoke : “ You don’t seem to re- 
member your old acquaintances very well, but I must 
say you are deucedly hospitable.” 

Saying this, he tapped the remaining bottle of beer, 
lifted it to his lips, where it remained until an empty 
bottle was all there was to take away. 

At last old Hinchey recovered from his amazement 
sufficiently to speak, and, in an angry tone, said : “ Who 
are you, anyway, and how did you get in here ?” 


258 


gibbon’s place. 


“ I, sir, am an old penitentiary friend of yourself, 
Mr. Henry McGuffin. We occupied adjoining cells in 
the prison. As to how I came in these private apart- 
ments of yours, I will only say that I accompanied you 
home from the saloon where you purchased this beer.” 

As he said this, he very appropriately placed his 
right hand on the waistband of his pants. 

“ You see,” he continued, in a light and easy conver- 
sational style of speech, “ although many years have 
passed over our heads since we met, or rather parted, 
for, if you remember, we changed our barber-pole con- 
vict suits for citizen dress the same morning, and in 
presence of the keeper shook hands at parting, you de- 
claring that your life from thenceforth should be a model 
of uprightness, and I making the same declaration, how- 
beit, I believed at the time you were lying, and knew 
mighty well that I was.” 

“ Ah, I know you, now,” said old Hinchey, extending 
his hand and shaking the newcomer’s warmly, “ it is 
Harlan Barretson, my dear friend of long ago. Oh, I 
am so glad to see you, though I am very poor, I am, 
indeed — spent nearly all the money I had for these sand- 
wiches and the beer.” 

“But where are my sandwiches,” cried Hinchey, 
looking in the basket, and then on the board, and from 
there to the now attentive faces of the small boys. 

“My goodness gracious me,” exclaimed the old ’Pos- 
sum in unfeigned astonishment, “ these young men have 
eaten every crumb and you have drank my beer, and now 
old Hinchey can starve, I suppose, for all anybody 
cares.” 

“ Here,” said Barretson, throwing down a twenty - 
dollar bank-note on the table, “here are twenty dollars. 
Now go and replenish the eatables, and don’t fail to 
bring a case of beer back with you, though you have to 
hire a dray, or a half-dozen of them, for the matter of 
that.” 

Hinchey departed, and in due time returned with a 
heaping basket of brown rusks, corn beef, cold mutton, 
and a rasher of bacon, also a full case of beer. 

“Did you load my locks for me?” asked Hinchey. 
“Not a single door can I lock.” 


gibbon’s place. 


259 


“ I believe 1 did do something of that sort,” Barretson 
replied, “but then you are surely sufficiently skilled in 
the lock-picking business to be able to clean them in a 
few minutes in the morning ” 

“Well, you are one of us, belong to the profession, 
and so I will forgive you this time,” said old Hinchey, 
grinning his usual horrid, vacant grin. 

“ One of you ? Belong to the profession ?” repeated 
Barretson, in a voice that was highly flavored with con- 
tempt ; “ not by a big jump, old man ! Harlan Barret- 
son isn’t that kind of a chap any more, nor have I been, 
for better than a dozen years. If I was,” he went on, “I 
would not be following you into such miserable quarters 
as these, to secure your valuable services to do a job I 
don’t cafe to dirty my own hands with.” 

“Ho, ho,” said Hinchey, “some one in your way, my 
dear good friend ?” 

“That is what they call it, I believe,” answered Bar- 
retson, as he tapped a fourth bottle. 

“ Who is this wicked man, I wonder, that wants to 
bother you,” asked Hinchey. 

“ His name is Timothy Mannahan, and he lives at a 
place called the Mills. I believe he is postmaster at 
that place.” 

“ Oh, that is a long way from here, my dear friend,” 
said Hinchey. 

“ Nevertheless, I want you to go there,” replied Bar- 
retson, “and do the job — you understand, eh ?” 

“Understand? Why, my dear friend, I think you 
speak plain enough, only you are not through yet.” 

“ I guess lam,” replied Barretson, looking a little 
clouded at Hinchey’s remark. 

“Well, then, I can’t do the job for you,” answered 
Hinchey, “ and I am very sorry to disappoint you, I am 
indeed.” 

“ But I will pay you for it, and I will pay you mighty 
well,” said Barretson. 

“Plow much?” asked Hinchey. 

“ A thousand,” was Barretson’s reply. 

“ Dollars or pounds?” asked Hinchey. 

“ Dollars, of course,” replied Barretson. 


260 


GIBBONS PLACE. 


“Then of course, my dear good friend, I can’t do the 
job,” said Hinchey, decidedly. 

“Well, what will you charge me to do the business 
up in shape?” asked Barretson, half angrily. 

“Five thousand dollars, even money, is my price,” 
replied Hinchey, “and no discount given to the trade or 
reductions made on job lots. Terms, payable in 
advance.” 

“ What proof would I have that you were acting in 
good faith with me ?” asked Barretson, who by this time 
was getting pretty well under the influence of the drink. 

“ Oh, my dear,” said Hinchey, seating himself in a 
crouching posture just in front of Barretson. “You 
don’t think, I hope, that I would tell you, my good 
friend, an untruth V 9 The old ’Possum, as he said this, 
put on a desperately forlorn and injured-innocence sort 
of an expression, as much as to say, “The idea of doubt- 
ing my integrity in a professional matter is simply pre- 
posterous.” 

Thus the early part of the night wore away, and the 
last part came around. Just as the morrow’s day was 
breaking in the Eastern sky, two forms emerged from 
the basement of “ Gibbon’s Place.” 

“ 1 will go this way, my dear friend,” says one of 
them, whom we recognize as Hinchey, “and,” — he con- 
tinues, — “ will be back in just three days. Meet me here 
at the expiration of that time, and I will tell you how 
the old chap struggled, and whether he sent any message 
to you.” 

With this they parted, Barretson hurrying along the 
street toward “The Arlington,” thinking what a fool he 
had been to “ booze up ” and tell old Hinchey so much 
that ought never have been breathed to any one. “ How- 
beit,” he muttered, “ I am five thousand dollars poorer 
than I was, and old Hinchey is five thousand dollars 
ahead.” 

Harlan Barretson was a man of powerful frame, with, 
however, a sadly dwarfed conscience. His appetite for 
the social glass had grown on him with the years and 
luxurious living. 

For some dozen years he had been the lord proprietoi 


gibbon’s place. 


261 


of “ Barret Hall,” the old Barretson estate in Warwick- 
shire, England. He had obtained possession of the 
estate by fraudulent evidence showing that Timothy 
Mannahan, the rightful owner, was dead. 

During these years, Harlan Barretson had never 
married, but in a quiet way searched for the whereabouts 
of the missing heir. 

Accidently, he had learned through an old, unfinished 
letter that Barretson Mannahan had commenced to his 
brother Timothy, the whereabouts of this man who might 
any day step in and dispossess him. Moreover, he was 
desirous now of marrying, and had found a lady of rich 
family and with old aristocratic blood in her veins, to 
whom he had given all the affections that a long life of 
debauch had left in his selfish heart. True, it was not 
much to give, not as much as the lady really expected, 
but then she was desirous of marrying him. No, not 
him, but his estate. 

While Harlan Barretson lounges about the corridors 
of “ The Arlington,” musing in mental speculation on 
the best way to put in three days’ time, let us also specu- 
late on what old Hinchey will discover at the Mills, and 
what his villainous hands will find there to do. 

Our deep-felt sympathies shall remain with the two 
little waifs imprisoned in the basement room at Gibbon’s 
Place. 

They are provided with a few dry crumbs and a single 
pitcher of water, as rations for three long, lonely, weary 
days. 

Let us commend them to the Eternal, Infinite and 
Allwise God of Heaven and Earth. We, His children, 
are but finite creatures, unable to fully comprehend Him, 
and can only know Him through His own revelations. 
To that Book, to which so many aching, wounded hearis 
have turned for comfort and consolation, let us turn, 
i ; with full faith in Him who “ doeth all things well,” ever 
remembering, it emphatically says that here “ We see 
through a glass darkly.” 


262 


MORE TROUBLE. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

THE DETECTIVES RETURN TO HAMPTON. THE INIMITABLE 
IN MORE TROUBLE. 

I T will be necessary for us to go just far enough back 
in our story to explain that C. McGuffin believed 
Tobs to be dead. In fact old Hinchey, on return- 
ing from the pasture cliff, told him that not only Tobs, 
but also his two distinguished city editors, were sleeping 
the “quiet sleep that knows no waking,” in the bottom 
of the lake. 

When the furnished room was examined, and his 
guests’ absence discovered, it seemed to confirm the old 
’Possum’s story beyond the shade of doubt. 

Hinchey was not slow to impress his brother with the 
idea that he had rendered most valuable services, and, 
therefore, should be additionally rewarded, but McGuffin 
called a business turn on his avaricious brother by tell- 
ing him that in disposing of the city gentlemen he had 
only done so to protect and free himself from eye 
witnesses. 

Old Hinchey pretended to be greatly cast down by 
his brother’s decision, and soon after took his leave. He 
knew well enough that the drowning men were rescued 
and in all probabilities alive, but they had escaped, and 
there was no use of making the Phenomenal McGuffin 
dissatisfied by telling him. 

One thing was certain, that Tobs and his companions 
would give the McGuffin farm a wide berth until such 
time as they were ready to make trouble. “And that,” 
muttered Hinchey, with a shrug of his shoulders, “is 
none of my business.” 

Thus several weeks had glided by, and in the mean- 
time Burt Lester had been reclaimed from the verge of 
death, along which his prostrate body had floated so long 
on the fretful waves of uncertainty. 

The officials at Washington had been notified by old 
Tim that he was going away, who suggested Mrs. O’Ri- 


MOKE TROUBLE. 


263 


ley as his successor, and in due time, after all the nee- 
essary and unnecessary questions that could be thought 
of were asked and answered, and a great many papers 
were signed and seals affixed, etc., the Widow O’Riley 
was suddenly transferred from the humble life of a pri- 
vate citizen to a United States official handling the mail 
that came and departed from the Mills post-office. The 
remuneration per year being five and twenty dollars. 

On a certain evening, soon after the above arrange- 
ments were perfected, a carriage drew up in front of old 
Tim’s cottage, which was nicely kept by the Widow 
O’Riley — the same carriage and the same driver who 
had brought them to it. Harry, Burt, Tobs and the ex- 
postmaster were leaving the Mills. Just before start- 
ing, old Tim withdrew to the double grave beneath the 
lone tree. 

Although many long years had passed away since 
thes^ graves were made, yet, when old Tim wrapt his 
sable garments more closely about him, they covered a 
lonely heart, which in silence wept for those two, Mollie 
and Katie. 

Ah, over thirty years had passed away, and many 
times since then old Tim had seen the rosy wine cup go 
round the social board, had listened to the singing of 
many merry songs, and watched the mazy dance go 
whirling on, but he never, forgot the memory of those 
whose lives ceased when his life of regret commenced. 

Harry Baine stole softly out toward the sacred spot, 
and when he drew near, he heard old Tim saying, in a 
slow, contemplative way, “ Sure, an’ I am about to leave 
you, sacred spot of earth, for a time. Old Tim’s after 
being an old man now, and never yet has he bent a knee 
to aught in Heaven above or earth below, but this mound 
of clay. I thought no one cared for me, sure, and, faith, 
they were looking for me all the time. I have heard 
there w T as such a thing as looking ‘through nature up to 
nature’s God.’ Faith, and who know T s now but I have 
>, been afther looking up to my God all these lonely years 
through this little plot of ground, and never even suspi- 
cioned that I was doin’ it ? 

“ Ah, sure, we are all blind-folded willful children. 


264 


MORE TROUBLE. 


Neither can we see nor will we listen to what is afther 
being told to us. I guess there is a Creator, sure, after 
all. Faith, there are so many creatures here on earth, 
there must have been a Creator to have made them. The 
very grandeur of the towering mountains and the deep 
forests, the thundering, mad-capped waves and ‘ still 
wathers in shady places,’ the carpet-like grasses and 
wayside violets, the gorgeous scene of the setting sun, 
when gold-lined clouds are hanging looped around, the 
myriads of twinkling stars above, that peep over each 
other’s shoulders down at me, and the gentle whisperings 
of the night winds that blow my gray hairs about — all 
is after telling me, sure, that there is a Creator. Sure, 
and I guess the poet about hit it when he said : 

‘This world is full of beauty, 

Like other worlds above ; 

And if we do our duty, 

It might be full of love.’ 

“ The devil of the whole business with me is that I’ve 
real strong suspicions I never did my duty as I should. 
Well, well — we’ll see, we’ll see.” 

As the old man said this, he turned and walked slowly 
back to the cottage. 

A bunk had been arranged in the barouche-like car- 
riage, across the end of the two seats which fronted each 
other, on which Burt Lester was carefully laid, with 
Harry Blaine by his head and old Tim sitting next his 
feet. 

Tobs, who now was wholly recovered, took a seat be- 
side the driver, and soon they were wheeling along the 
smooth roads toward Hampton. 

In about half an hour after they started, the old moon 
came slowly up the eastern horizon, and looked calmly, 
and Harry thought, approvingly down upon them. 

The weeks that had passed by since Burt received his 
wounds, had been very confining and tedious to Harry, 
and now, on this pleasant evening in early June, he felt 
uncommonly light-hearted and gleeful. 

A letter had been written to Lawyer Westover at 
once, after Burt’s mishap, informing the Chicago attor- 


MORE TROUBLE. 


265 


ney that another detective or detectives would have to be 
employed on the case, for a while at least. 

A careful copy of Burt Lester’s records, relative to 
points and impressions in the case, were sent to the law- 
yer, so that Lester’s successor could go on where he left 
off. Although the night was pleasant, and the roads 
smooth, yet Hampton was not reached until a full hour 
passed midnight. 

The exacting, methodical old landlord, Mr. Scud- 
more, was roused up from a sound sleep, and greeted 
Harry Gibbs, his old boarder, warmly. 

Rooms were provided, and Burt Lester, who, by-the- 
way, had stood the trip remarkably well, was soon fast 
asleep, as was also Tobs. 

Harry and old Tim had agreed between themselves to 
go over to the depot, and call on Edward Willets. 

When they reached the depot, they discovered the 
Inimitable- through the window, surveying himself in 
front of a glass. 

He was alone, and as they came up, he was saying : 
“ Yes, sir, your honor, 1 am only pleading for that which 
is my own. The very Declaration of American Inde- 
pendence guarantees to me the right I claim. It says 
‘all men are created equal.’ That is my doctrine, your 
honor, and has been ever since I was a laughing boy, 
cradled and rocked in the lap of luxury and basking in 
the sunshine of poetic muse. Later, I was precipitated 
out into a cold, selfish, hard, practical world, since which 
time — ” just here he discovered our two friends approach- 
ing, and he at once hastened to greet Harry very warmly, 
though it must be admitted he was somewhat confused. 

“This,” said Harry, “ is a friend of mine, Mr. Tim- 
othy.” 

“Mr. Timothy,” said the glowing Inimitable Willets, 
“ this is indeed a pleasure, which, I freely admit on the 
outset, I was not prepared for.” 

Old Tim hardly understood why Mr. Willets gave him 
such a hearty welcome, nevertheless, thanking him for 
it, he observed as he looked out of the window down 
the long straight stretch of railroad track, that “ Sure, 
sir, and it’s a beautiful moonlight night.” 

n 


266 


MORE TROUBLE. 


“ Beautiful, my newly made friend, did you say ?” 
interrogatively observed Willets, and then, before old 
Tim could frame a reply, he went on, “ beautiful, I 
should say so, sir. Let your eyes 'for a brief moment 
wander out of the window and down that long dim 
aisle. Observe, sir, the tall stately columns of trees that 
border on either side, and the soft, mellow rays of the 
moon falling aslant and shimmering through the open- 
ings of the boughs. Beautiful, sir, why it is, as it were, 
positively enchanting ! 

“ I frequently ask myself if there are many of God’s 
creatures favored, as I am, with such pleasant surround- 
ings and such en hunting sights. What, may I ask, are 
gothic cathedrals t What are gilded shrines, sir, over- 
laid and inlaid with burnished gold, compared with this 
very view of a forest temple, as it were. The stately 
trees are the countless columns, while the dome of 
Heaven is the bending vault of God’s own blue 
sky.” 

As the Inimitable was calling his listeners’ attention 
to the moonlight view out of the window, he kept his 
big-jointed index finger on the go, up and down, as if it 
were endowed with perpetual motion. 

“ How have you been getting along, Mr. Willets, 
since I went away from Hampton ?” asked Harry. 

“ My dear sir, and highly respected friend,” said Wil- 
lets, “ I am in trouble again.” As he said this, the happy, 
glowing look was pushed off his face by the troubled 
wave that took its place. 

“ What is the matter now ?” asked Harry, a little sur- 
prised. 

“If my charming friend, Mr. Timothy, here, will 
excuse me for relating certain pecuniary personal mat- 
ters, I shall, I assure you, be most happy to inform you 
of the grossest injustice of the present age.” 

Old Tim readily gave his assent, and the Inimitable, 
after wiping real or imaginary perspiration from his 
forehead, commenced : “ Vou well know, my charming 
friend, that we are but children of destiny, as it were. 
Pardon me, sir, for making the broad and unqualified 
assertion that I am at the present time dispossessed of 


MORE TROUBLE. 


267 


— of— -shall I name it, sir? One little word tells it. Let 
me first give the definition : 

“ First,” said Willets, counting off with his fingers, 
“ it is an enemy to the commercial and social world. 
Second,” counting dff another finger, “ it is the magic 
key that unlocks and tramples the chain of friendship 
asunder, and makes the warmest friends bitter enemies. 
Third,” another finger being counted off, “it hovers 
around the rich and prosperous like a tempting, alluring 
bait, but flees from the poor man as if he was a leper. 
Fourth,” again repeating the finger act, “ its want will 
starve the poor man and break the richest corporation in 
America. 

“As I before observed, one word tells it — credit! 
Yes, sir, credit is the word, and I am absolutely desti- 
tute of such an article, and, too, at a time when I need 
it most. 

“To be more explicit, my charming Harry, I will say 
that our landlord has lately become a fanatic on the 
subject of running his hotel on the pay-in-advance sys- 
tem, and I was unfortunately the victim selected to make 
a test case of. My suspicions are that I am the only 
boarder in the house that is aware of his fanaticism. 

“ If there is any one bump,” continued the Inimit- 
able, tapping his head with his long, slim, big-jointed 
finger, “that nature has made more prominent than 
another in this landlord’s cranium, it is the bump of 
persistency. He is a holy terror, he is, upon my life he 
is, to follow up and adhere like a sticking plaster to any 
given principle or system that he may in an unthoughted 
moment adopt. 

“In short, sir, my purse kept up with this devilish 
hobby of his until last night, just before the supper hour, 
when, to my great and inexplainable grief, I discovered 
that all my ready capital, surplus, and undivided profits 
had fled, ieavifig my purse in as empty a condition as 
was my yearning stomach. 

“This is the purse that so shamefully went back on 
me,” said Willets, drawing a withered-looking pocket- 
book from his breeches pocket, “ and never before, sir, 
never,” he went on, “did I catch on to the real meaning 
of what Shakespeare was driving at when he said — 


268 


MORE TROUBLE. 


J He that steals my purse steals trash.’ 

“ I have,” he continued, “ been studying up an argu- 
mentative speech, which I propose hurling broadside at 
this landlord to-morrow morning — it is not necessary 
for me to say before breakfast. My text is taken from 
the Declaration of American Independence where it 
says, ‘ All men are created equal.’ ” 

“ The rest of his boarders are not made test cases 
of, and, therefore, I claim there is a line of inequality 
drawn to my disadvantage, and my gnawing stomach, 
this very minute — the strongest feelings known to mor- 
tal man — backs the claim I make for all it is worth. 
Pope has beautifully^ said : 

‘ What, and how great the virtue of the art 
To live on little with a cheerful heart.’ 

“ But I am, my r charming sir, reduced a peg below, 
for I haven’t even a little.” Here the Inimitable’s hand- 
kerchief came in play again, and was used with a ner- 
vous hand. 

“ You have had no supper then ?” said Harry. 

“Not a morsel, my charming companion, not a mor- 
sel.” 

“ Excuse me a moment, Mr. Willets,” said Harry, 
“ while I go across the way to get me a cool drink from 
the town pump. You and Mr. Timothy visit while I am 
gone.” 

A moment later, and Harry r was out on the street, 
walking briskly along toward the hotel, and muttering 
to himself, “ I’ll just give the old miser, Scudmore, a 
piece of my mind, so I will. He is always glad to see 
me, because he sees good money in the exorbitant fancy r 
prices he charges me.” 

By this time he had reached the hotel, and again the 
landlord was roused from a sound nap. 

When he saw it was Mr. Gibbs he was all smiles and 
ready to accommodate him in any way he could. 

“I want something to eat,” said Harry in a stern 
voice. 


MORE TROUBLE. 


269 


** Certainly, sir, certainly; come this way and we will 
see what can be found in the larder.” 

Harry provided himself with a tray from a table, as 
he passed through the dining room, and when the larder 
was reached, he commenced filling it by first putting on 
a half loaf of bread and a small plate of butter. Then a 
large piece of cold corn beef, some cold potatoes, and 
such other eatables as could be found. 

“ You wish to take the tray up stairs, I suppose ?” re- 
marked mine host, in his most agreeable and pleasant 
manner. 

“No, sir,” was Harry’s brusque reply, “I wish to 
take it to the depot and give Mr. Willets his supper, and 
I tell you now, old man, if you ever again play any of 
your pay-in-advance tricks on him, and then deny him 
his supper, simply because he has no ready money, you 
will be very sorry for having done so.” 

Without waiting for a reply, Harry took up the tray, 
after filling a small pitcher with milk, and started for 
the depot. 

When Harry marched into the Inimitable’s presence 
with a tray heaped up with eatables, and set them down 
before him, Willets was absolutely unable to speak a 
word, but obeyed orders to the letter when Harry told 
him “ to fall to.” 

The corned beef, cold potatoes, bread and butter dis- 
appeared just about the time the bottom of the milk 
pitcher came in sight. 

When he was through, he turned to Harry and old 
Tim, and offered them cigars, which they both accepted. 
Soon after their Havanas were lighted, wreaths of blue 
smoke floated lazily around the room and drifted out at 
the door. 

“ My charming and never-to-be-forgotten friend,” 
observed Willets, “the gnawing, hungry sensation in my 
stomach has disappeared, but there is a yearning, insati- 
able desire that comes prospecting up my throat to thank 
you in some appropriate language for this great kindness. 
It can never be said of you, my esteemed friend, that 4 1 
was hungry and you fed me not.’ 

“ Friendship, my dear sir, is no gossamer thread that 


270 


MORE TROUBLE. 


can be woven and then snapped like worthless whipcord. 

The thread usually requires long years in its weav- 
ing, yet it may be woven in an instant, and when once 
woven is for all time. 

“ True, its influence may grow lax at times, and cease 
to operate, and the once friends may become enemies, 
yet when the one falls under the power of the other, and 
the arm is exultingly lifted up to strike, those cords of 
early friendship gives the heart a sharp twinge, and the 
vibration whispers — ‘ Peace upon earth, good will to 
mankind.’ 

“ Before you came, my charming Harry, I was indeed 
most wretched. I felt that at last my time had come. I 
could discover no way out of the sombre gloom of des- 
pair that was settling like a dark cloud over my poetic 
soul. But thanks to you, the burden is removed, and 
again I feel like my craft was sailing joyfully forward 
under a clear sky, and smooth waters with no breakers 
ahead. And now, sir, as the poet Moore has said to the 
world, so say I to you — 

"As half in shade, and half in sun, 

This world along its path advances ; 

Oh! may that side the sun shines on 
Be all that ever meets thy glances.’ 

“ Thank you, Mr. Willets, for the sentiment,” replied 
Harry. “Now tell us, please, what you have learned, 
if anything, about the missing money. By-the-way,” 
said Harry, drawing closer and speaking lover, “ where 
is Lin Brinkerhoff ?” 

“Why he took a lay off,” replied Willets, “just be- 
fore you came, said he was sick, — rather queer, too, he 
seemed all right until the midnight train came in, then 
said he was going home.” 

“ When are you going on your vacation ?” asked 
Harry. 

“The fifteenth of this month ; only ten days more, my 
charming friend,' replied the Inimitable, “ and then I 
will see my angelic Cinderilla. By-the-way,” he con- 
tinued, “I am going to take Bertha Pembrooke, Pen’s 
little sister, along with me. An old maiden aunt, Zur- 


MORE TROUBLE. 


271 


ilda Goodsil by name, has charge of this little darling, 
and I mean to give the old lady the grand scare of her 
life by running away with the little beauty. She is only 
a little more than a year old now.” 

“ You must do nothing of the kind, Mr. Willets,” said 
Harry, half angrily, “the law will have its clutches on 
your throat in no time, if you commence kidnapping 
children. 

“ You have a very easy way of ingratiating yourself 
in the good graces of people — pardon me, sir, I mean it 
as a compliment — and the proper thing for you to do, is 
to pay considerable attention to the little child, and then 
beg leave to take her along with you, when you go to 
visit your sisters, and take her away with the full con- 
sent of her guardian.” 

Thus the conversation continued for a couple of 
hours, and then Harry and old Tim took themselves 
away toward the hotel. 

“ Faith,’ ’ said Tim, as they walked along the silent 
Street, “ I can see a look about the lad’s face once in 
awhile that reminds me of my sister Emily, sure enough. 
We will just be afther asking him a. few questions to- 
morrow, and I’ll bet my old boots that he will turn out 
to be me nephew, sure. ’ 

“ I tell you, Uncle Tim,” said Harry, in alow musical 
voice, “if you once see this Mr. Willets’s sister, Emily, 
you will swear you are a relative of hers, whether you 
are or not. She is actually the handsomest woman that 

“Hush, hush,” said old Tim, “ haven’t I been afther 
saying the same thing about my lost Mollie? many and 
many a time, sure, noAv, and don’t set your heart too 
strong on your lady love, for I, who have learned the 
lesson, can tell you that death it is can cheat the richest 
man living, or the poorest beggar, out of anything they 
set their heart on in this world. Remember that now, 
remember that.” 

Harry made no reply to the old man’s speech, and 
soon after they separated for the night, each seeking the 
restful quiet of his own room. 

The window of Harry Baine’s room looked down in- 
to the neatly kept garden adjoining the house. 


272 


AN EARLY CALLER. 


“ Ah,” thought Harry, “ this beautiful moonlight night 
is emblematic of my own happy thoughts of meeting 
Emily. To-morrow noon we start for Burt Lester’s home 
in Cinapolis, and only a half-dozen blocks away is ‘a 
little brown cot where lives my true lady love.’ ” 

What is more beautiful than a balmy moonlight night 
in June ? Where is the pen that can adequately describe 
it ? 

Harry Blaine soon threw himself down to dream of 
Emily Willets, but still the calm old moon looked gently 
down, its silvery light mellowing every object. 

The little garden with its shelled walks, bordered on 
either side with beautiful fragrant flowers, clusters of 
double roses, the large white and scarlet and red geran- 
iums, the oleander tree just at a turn in the path, and a 
countless variety of beautiful flowers of all kinds looking 
smilingly up at the old man in the moon, who, in turn 
actually smiled as he looked good naturedly down on 
them. 

Just beneath the window, the vining tendrils of a 
morning glory were twining round and round the lattice 
work of the low veranda ; just beyond stood a fountain, 
its waters flashing and sparkling in the soft moonlight, 
making music low and sweet. The night wind came up 
a little, and sang in plaintive strains its lullaby song 
through the leafy boughed trees. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


THE INIMITABLE HAS AN EARLY CALLER. 


T HE following morning began to dawn bright and 
clear ere the sun peeped over the horizon. 

Beyond the forest and high hills which 
skirted the little village of Hampton on the east, the sun 
always made its appearance long before it did down in 
the shady Hampton valley. 


AIT EARLY CALLER, 


273 


As the light of coming day increased, the stars grew 
dimmer, and the old moon, which was now low in the 
west, grew pale and white as if the glow and varnish had 
all been worn olf in crowding its way through the legion 
of diamond stars that beset its course. 

The Inimitable was sitting in his big arm-chair at the 
depot, patiently waiting for the breakfast hour to come 
round, although he did not have a cent with which to 
pay for a meal. 

Suddenly he saw a female form flit by his window, 
and a moment later enter the door. 

“ Good morning, Mr. Willets, I hope you are not 
angry at my coming, least ways I don't think you ought 
to be, after so long a time has passed.” 

Willets came to his feet like an upheaved beam in a 
building, and with his hands deep in his breeches pockets 
stood looking down at the figure for a moment, and then 
said : 

“ Miss Goodsil, good morning. Excuse me,” said 
he, “ but I beg you to permit me to make an observation 
before you say another word. I wish to say,” he went 
on, “ that you in the long ago were my cherished and 
cherishing friend. Have I forgotten the happy poetical 
days which I passed under your cottage roof ? No, far 
from it. I will be frank with you, Miss Goodsil, and 
confess that after the fevered ardor of my poetic soul, 
and later the angry words of discourtesy, have had time 
to cool down to a normal temperature, I am able to 
truthfully say that a chain of friendship was forged and 
securely welded around my heart while I was an inmate 
of your house.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Willets,” said the wrinkled spinster, “ I 
was sure all along there must be a tender place in your 
uncommon poetic soul, I was, indeed I was.” 

“ My charming friend of other days,” said Willets, “ I 
will confess more.” 

Then he paused fora moment, and the spinster laid 
her head in her hands as she leaned against the ticket 
office window, mentally saying to herself, “ I knew it, I 
knew he would propose. Oh, what happiness ! what 
will I do with myself,” 

12 * 


274 


AN EARLY CALLER. 


“I will confess,” Willets went on, “ that I was think- 
ing of you just before you came in this morning. Think- 
ing of your two little charges, Pen and Bertha. True, 
one has for a time disappeared, and I, Edward Willets, 
Esq., am doing my utmost to search him out from the 
cobwebby rafters of seclusion to prevent your aching 
heart from bursting.” • 

“You are so kind, Mr. Willets,” said the spinster, as 
she wiped away a few tears that she had by hard work 
managed to shed, and then thought to herself, “Well, I 
do wonder if that is all he is going to say ?” 

“ I also have,” continued the Inimitable, <l an ever 
restless piece of muscle in this breast, known as my 
heart, which has as it were, gone out — ” 

This was too much for the spinster’s feelings, and 
she sobbed aloud in audible tones : “ I knew it, I knew 
it.” 

The Inimitable looked at the weeping spinster a little 
clouded, and then went on again : “As I observed, my 
heart has gone out to these orphan children, and 1 fancy 
my imagination is sufficiently vivid and voluminous to 
adequately comprehend the enormous weight that rests 
on your bony — I mean slender, — shoulders in discharg- 
ing the arduous, two-fold duties of administering on the 
estate of the late Leroy Pembrooke, and becoming the 
guardian of these two children.” 

When Zurilda looked up, and with her apron gave 
her eyes a finishing wipe, there was a cold, frigid, dis- 
appointed look on her face, and it remained there until 
she looked clear around the room, and at last rested her 
eyes on the good humored face of the Inimitable. Then 
her best look of resignation chased the other exprei 
sion away, and ruled supreme on her countenance. 

“Mr. Willets,” she said, “ if you only could find my v 
dear nephew Penfield, I don’t know what I would not 
give you.” 

She, no doubt, meant by that, that she would give 
him herself, along with all her earthly possessions, but 
Willets was either unable to comprehend her mean- 
ing, or was not desirous of being entertained in that 
way. 


AN EARLY CALLER. 


275 


“I have a letter here, Mr. Willets,” said the spinster, 
“ which I am greatly worried over,” 

“ If my memory serves me aright,” observed Willets, 
“ I, myself, at one time in my life received a not-over- 
courteous letter in this very room, that worried me not 
a little. In one sense of the word, it was a crusher.” 

“ Oh ! Mr. Willets,” cried the spinster, “ why will you. 
always refer to that horrid letter I sent you ? It is so 
awful aggravating, leastways it makes one feel so miser- 
ably uncomfortable.” 

“ My dear Miss Goodsil,” replied the Inimitable, “ you 
certainly speak the words of truth and soberness, for I 
can do nothing less than agree with you. The letter was 
certainly aggravating in the extreme, and that a miser- 
able, uncomfortable feeling followed in the letter’s wake, 
there can be no doubt of. I myself am a living witness 
to the undeniable fact, but in the memorable language 
of Whats-his-name — 

‘ Hold ! Enough !’ 

“ Now my charming friend what about the letter in 
your hand ?” 

At this the spinster quietly unfolded a letter and held 
it out at arm’s length, and then swayed her head up and 
down, vainly seeking the proper focus for her failing 
sight. Then she paused, and blinked and winked, and 
with the corner of her apron wiped her dimmed eyes, 
and then went at the letter again, giving two or three 
insignificant inhaling snuffs with her nose as she did so, 
and said, more to herself than to Willets, “ Now, we’ll 
see if I don’t read it.” 

u My charming Miss Goodsil, replied Willets, “I 
prophesy that you will see if you do read it, instead of 
see if you don’t read it.” 

The spinster observed that it was tarnal fine writing, 
least ways it appeared so. 

“ Put on your glasses,” suggested the Inimitable. 

The letter and both the spinster’s hands dropped 
down to her side. She bent the lustre of her gaze hard 
at Willets, as if she was debating whether to deny the 
charge of wearing glasses or to take them out of her 
pocket and put them on. 


276 


A1ST EARLY CALLER. 


The Inimitable divined her thoughts, and anxious to 
have no scene, observed as a compromise, “ that he had 
seen her wear glasses through the window, and sup- 
posed she did yet, unless her second sight was coming 
on.” 

“ Oh ! you horrid man!” said the spinster, “ that hotel 
life will be the ruination of you yet.” Saying this she 
drew out her case and fitted the glasses in a perching 
position on her nose, read as follows : 

“ Anchorville, June 2d, 18 — . 

“ Miss Zurilda Goodsil : 

“ My dear sister : — Three years ago I wrote you the 
terrible news of my husband’s untimely death by some 
unknown murderer’s hand. I told you the particulars 
of that awful crime, how he was found bleeding and 
dead on a car platform. I also told you, dear Zurilda, 
that it was the hardest blow of my life, and that nothing 
could be harder, but I now have even a greater cross 
than that to bear. Little Charlie and Freddie have both 
been kidnaped away from me. Just think of the little 
ones being denied a mother’s care. I am almost wild. 
Charlie, the oldest, is only ten years old. I received a 
letter from some one this morning who pretends to have 
my children. It is from Cinapolis, and read as follows: 

“‘Do you want your little boys? If so, come to 
Cinapolis, and be at the town pump just west of Gib- 
bon’s Place, next Sunday evening, between ten and 
eleven, and bring two thousand dollars. If anybody is 
with you you can’t have them. — O. H.’ 

“Now, Zurilda, I want to borrow one thousand "dol- 
lars of you (I have the other thousand), and get my dear 
children away from this wicked person, whoever he or 
she is. Let me hear from you at once. 

“ Affectionately, 

“Your sister, 

“ Angeline Bethel.” 

“ My charming friend,” said Willets, “ I was well ac- 
quainted with Mr. Bethel, your sister’s husband, but 
never knew, thought, or suspicioned until this minute 


AN EARLY CALLER. 


277 


that Mrs. Bethel was a sister of yours. It was I, Edward 
Willets, Esq., who sold Mr. Bethel the ticket on which 
he took his fatal ride. I it was who found his purse and 
returned it to his bereaved family, and I have always 
thought that their lamentations and deep-felt sorrow 
were noticeably lightened by this little act of kindness 
on my part — no, I don’t mean that they felt less sorrow- 
ful about Mr. Bethel’s death, not that exactly, but then 
they undoubtedly felt better. And it was also myself 
who fastened these eyes on the frowsy headed, glistening 
eyes, bristled face and dirty grinning countenance of the 
living devil who killed him, and who I suspicion is the 
abductor of these two little boys. I am no fighter, Miss 
Goodsil, far from it, nothing of that kind is my make- 
up, not a jot or tittle of fight in my blood or muscle, 
but let me give you a pointer,” as he said this he wagged 
his long, big-jointed finger forward and back, as the 
finger of a butcher’s scales performs when different 
articles are being weighed. “ If that old, grinning, 
murdering, kidnaping devil ever crosses my path, Til 
give him the dyspepsia so deucedly bad that his boot- 
soles will clamor for an outlet through his fangs of 
teeth.” 

“ Well, what shall I do ?” said the spinster, frantically, 
“ I havn’t got only about five hundred dollars.” 

“ Write,” said Willets, “write at once and tell your 
charming sister that five hundred dollars is all the ready 
cash you have on hand, and that you have this day loaned 
one hundred dollars of that to Edward Willets, Esq., 
who proposes to go to Cinapolis, and by stratagem fol- 
low up O. H., whoever he is, and find her darling little 
boys, etc.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Willets,” said the spinster, smiling through 
her tears, “ your kindness shall never, never be forgotten. 
My money is at home. Shall I go after it now, or wait 
until after breakfast ?” 

“Before breakfast by all means,” said the Inimitable, 
earnestly. “ It is far more in keeping with the eternal 
fitness of things to attend to such small matters as these 
with the same promptness we would, larger transactions.” 

“Very well, Mr. Willets, I will go at once and bring 


278 


AN EARLY CALLER. 


it. But. are you quite sure that one hundred dollars is 
enough ?” 

“ My dear Miss Goodsil, you are no ordinary woman, 
but you are a very extraordinary person, indeed. I am 
not really sure that one hundred dollars is enough, and 
have been thinking so all along, and yet without my say- 
ing a word, not a single word, you have divined my 
thoughts.’’ 

“ Mr. Willets,” said the spinster, “ you are so compli- 
mentary. I will bring two hundred.” With this the 
bony form of the wrinkled spinster disappeared, and 
again the Inimitable was left alone. He watched her 
retreating form through the window by the dewy light 
of breaking day, until she disappeared at a turn of the 
road, and then observed that the old adage was certainly 
a very true one, which says, “That no tramp will ever 
go away from a good man’s door empty-handed ; not, 
that is, if he can reach an overcoat from the hall rack. 
I tell you, Edward Willets, Esq., you are a brick,” said 
he, rising to his feet and looking in the mirror. “ It has 
been said that a half loat beats nothing, but if two good 
full loaves don’t beat a loaf and a half then I will lay 
down and die. How suggestive, sir, are those beautiful 
lines of Christopher P. Cranch's, where he says that : 

1 We are spirits ciad in veils ; 

Man by man was never seen 
All our deep communing fails 

To remove the shadowy screen.’ 

You rascal, you, don’t you wink at me again like that, 
sir ; — I’ll pummel the very life out of you if you repeat 
that eye-lid act. It has been said, sir, by the tongue of a 
wise man, Richard Henry Stoddard, I believe, that ‘there 
are gains for all our losses.’ Now, I am well satisfied 
this is true in my case, but how is it with other people 
with whom 1 come in contact? 

“What! Are you winking again? Oh, you’re not; 
'tis well, ’tis well. What have you to say for yourself, 
sir ? Find these little boys and return them to their 
mother? Spoken like a man, my charming fellow. It 
gives me courage to hear you utter such noble words. 


A1ST EAELY CALLEK. 


279 


Your ambition, sir, is laudable. Who shall help you in 
this glorious undertaking? Harry Baine. Correct, sir, 
correct. Ah ! Edward you are a sly dog. You are an 
automath of the first water, sir. What is an automath ? 
Why, sir, my astonishment knows no bounds at your 
ignorance. An automath, sir, is a self-made man. I, 
Edward Willets, Esq., am a self-made man. What is 
that you say ? That 1 would have had a better job if I 
had let out the contract ? 

“You villainous rascal, you insult me beyond endur- 
ance. Prepare yourself, sir, for a mortal combat and — 
ah, Miss Goodsil, back already? You are, indeed, a 
most extraordinary woman. Swift of thought, swift of 
foot, and swift of tongue — I beg pardon, I mean, my 
dear Miss Goodsil, that jy ou are an elegant and enter- 
taining conversationalist. ” 

“ Here are two hundred dollars/’ said the spinster, 
“and I expect Mr. Willets, I ought to have a note.” 

Just here her eyes met the Inimitable’s, and they 
gazed steadily at each other in silence fora moment, and 
then Willets said : “ Miss Goodsil !” 

This was said in a very hollow, unnatural voice. 
After another brief pause he repeated in the same grave- 
yard intonation : “ Miss Goodsil !” 

“I mean, Mr. Willets,” said the spinster, apologet- 
ically, “that I ought to have a note when dealing with 
most people, but I wouldn’t think of asking you for a 
note, indeed I wouldn’t.” 

“ And, Miss Goodsil, I can assure you on the honor 
of a gentleman — reduced, to be sure, far below the sphere 
into which I was born, nevertheless possessed of a poetic 
soui — that I would not think of giving you my note, 
Never, Miss Goodsil, never but once in my life did I 
give my note and it — though nothing but a small piece 
of paper — was a prominent factor in establishing my 
reputation in the neighborhood where I then resided. 

“ It had no sooner completed the job of establishing 
a reputation for me, when, owing to the wet weather or 
something else, the black rot set in, in its most malig- 
nant form. The upshot of the whole business was, I had 
to slip away in the darkness which usually occurs be- 


280 


AN EARLY CALLER. 


tween two days, to prevent this defective reputation from 
seeing which road I took.” 

They then talked matters over fully, and when Miss 
Zurilda arose to go he had her promise to let little Ber- 
tha Pembrooke accompany him when he went East to 
see his sisters. 

Although Harry Baine and his friends were rather 
late in rising, they were destined to find the inimitable 
waiting for them in the bar-room. He greeted them 
with great warmth. First Harry, then old Tim, after 
which Harry introduced the Inimitable Edward Willets 
Esq., to Mr. George Tobias — “ ’Rilia’s uncle, of whom I 
spoke to you at one time,” explained Harry. 

Willets received the introduction graciously, but not 
so fluently as Harry expected. 

The eyes of mine host, who had inaugurated the pay- 
in-advance system on poor Willets, was resting in a 
half-shut, blinking way on the group, of which fact the 
Inimitable was well aware. He gave Harry a wink just 
as the landlord observed that “the gentlemen will find 
breakfast waiting them in the dining room.” 

Whether this was meant to include or exclude Mr. 
Willets, no one knew. 

Willets repeated the eye-lid act at Harry, and walked 
up to the counter and said : 

“ Mr. Scudmore, you, sir, are the landlord of this in- 
stitution. An institution, sir, that has inaugurated a 
system that is oppressive in the extreme. I allude, sir, 
to your pay-in-advance scheme. Do you, sir, still insist 
on the rule being obeyed ?” 

The landlord saw that it was either a clear backdown 
on his part or a fight, in words at least, for his dignity. 
He Chose the latter, and after filling his lungs as full of 
air as was possible, he said in a slow, deep voice, “Yes, 
sir, in your case, I emphatically do insist on the rule be- 
ing complied with.” 

Harry made a move to say something, but the Inim- 
itable’s long arm was raised gently in the attitude of 
admonition, and he said, as he turned his face toward 
Harry : 

“ Silentio ! Silentio ! Be calm, my friends, be calm !” 




AN EARLY CALLER. 


281 


Then turning to the — by this time — red-faced landlord, 
he said : “ Take your change out of this small piece 
of paper, sir, and be satisfied, thou greedy son of Shy- 
lock.” 

Saying this he threw down a crisp one-hundred-dol- 
lar bank note, that the spinster had that very morning 
given him, at the same time exposing to the landlord’s 
sight a large roll of bills of smaller denomination. 
Howbeit, he observed to mine host that the one-hun- 
dred-dollar bill was the smallest change he had with 
him. 

Now, this landlord had a weakness, — perhaps the 
nature of his weakness can already be guessed — money 
was his God. Any man who had more money than him- 
self he regarded as his superior, and whomsoever was 
poorer than himself was his inferior. 

A hundred-dollar bill ! It was too much. It was his 
master. It was greater than he. It mellowed him, 
and had Willets thumped Mr. Scudmore as he might 
have thumped a watermelon, he would have found him 
lusciously ripe. 

He first grinned and simpered, then blushed and 
coughed, after which he said he couldn’t make change 
for such a large bill, and moreover didn’t mean to 
have him pay at all, that the pay-in-advance rule was 
broken. 

They then went into breakfast, and enjoyed the hot 
rolls, broiled beefsteak and hot coffee greatly. 

Immediately after breakfast the Inimitable and Harry 
withdrew to Burt Lester’s room. They found the detec- 
tive had just awakened and was feeling greatly refresh- 
ed. After Harry had ordered some buttered toast, a thin 
slice of hot broiled steak and a cup of Java coffee sent 
up, he sat down near the bed and watched Burt eat 
his breakfast, enjoying it quite as much as he had his 
own. 

Willets told them all about his interview with Zurilda 
Goodsil that morning, not even forgetting to tell them 
of the two hundred dollars expense money. He also 
told Harry that he had succeeded in getting the spinster’s 
consent for little Bertha to accompany him on his visit 
to see his sisters. 


282 


AN EARLY CALLER. 


It was agreed that Harry Baine should personify, 
with woman’s attire, Mrs. Bethel, and be at the town 
pump just west of “ Gibbon’s Place ’’the following Sun- 
day evening, and see if he could learn anything con- 
cerning the missing boys. 

They then took leave of Willefs, and at noon that 
day Burt Lester was comfortably quartered in the Pull- 
man car of the Cinapolis bound train with his three com- 
panions, old Tim, George Tobias, and his faithful friend, 
Harry Baine. 

Old Tim and Harry held a long conversation by 
themselves, in such a low tone that no one could hear 
what they said : but one thing was evident, old Tim was 
satisfied of Edward Willets’ identity, and was positive 
beyond a doubt that he was his sister Emily’s son. 

The train arrived at Cinapolis late at night time. The 
usual number of strong-lunged, hard-cheeked and greedy- 
for-patronage hackmen were in waiting, ready to all 
talk at once like so many quacking, gibble-gabbling 
fowls. 

A barouche was selected, and after Burt and his 
companions were comfortably stowed away, the number 
and street of Mr. Daniel Lester’s residence was given to 
the driver. 

Burt declared he felt almost well, while old Tim was 
well-nigh beside himself in happy anticipation of meet- 
ing the sister whom he had not seen for so many years. 

Would not Mrs. Lester feel proud of her son for 
having at last accomplished the object of his life’s search ? 
True, he comes home in a disabled condition, but time 
will cure his wounds. 

When he left home years before, he was only a child, 
but his mother’s love during all these intervening years 
of a detective’s life had stimulated him. 

Now he was returning home in company with the 
man whom his mother sent him into the world to find. 
Returning home, but now a man in years in experience, 
in hardships, in everything. 

The chubby-faeed boy of earlier years whose image 
was so indelibly stamped on his mother’s vision, was no 
more. No — that rosy-faced, silken-curled boy slipped 


AN EARLY CALLER. 


283 


out at the front gate, carrying his mother’s blessing, and 
away into the big world. He was the mother’s first- 
born, he was her pride. But the boy who went away so 
long ago kept getting farther and farther away, so 
slowly, so gradually, that the mother hardly knew when 
he was gone. 

He grew away from her. So it is with the mothers 
and their babes all over the land. The fond, kind- 
hearted mother lets her baby boy go out into the busy 
activities of a pushing, heartless world. 

With the ebb and flow of years he is drifted far 
away. The tide of time brings him back to her some day 
an eager, restless, ambitious man. 

Ah, where is her baby boy now ? He is as completely 
lost to her as if he slept in that quiet city of the dead, all 
steepled over with shafts of marble and granite. 

Who can tell where the baby went? He has gone 
away somewhere, and lost himself in the sheets of gath- 
ering mist, and the longing mother’s eyes will never see 
him again. The mist is too dense. To her the rosy- 
cheeked boy is forevermore only a flitting phantom. 

But the love that filled her soul when first the little 
form was laid upon her breast will never be lost. It is 
the deathless lamp, the beacon of hope that burns at the 
shrine of her affections, and lights the wayward, stray- 
ing feet of her boy back to her again when all the world 
is cold and dark and dreary to him. 

After all, there is nothing quite like a mother’s love. 
No matter how much we err and go astray, no matter 
how deep the depths to which we sink ; no matter how 
dark the frown society turns upon us, a mother’s love 
will never fail. In life’s storm or sunshine, life’s victory 
or defeat, life’s darkness or light — unfalteringly we turn 
to lay our weary heads gently down upon the bosom 
that gave us life. 


284 


OLD HINCHEY’S DEN. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

OLD HINCHEY FOLLOWED TO HIS DEN IN “ GIBBON’S 
PLACE.” 

O N the very night that Harry Baine and his com- 
panions came to Hampton from the Mills, old 
Hinchey arrived by rail. 

Lin Brinkerhoff, as we have seen, had quite an intim- 
ate acquaintanceship with C. McGuffin,^ and through 
him had become acquainted with old Hinchey. 

In truth it may be said that McGuffin was greatly 
displeased at this acquaintanceship, but the old ’Possum 
had requested it, and such were the toils that encompass- 
ed McGuffin about, that he was unable to do aught else 
than permit it. 

It is not. to be supposed that Lin knew what sort of a 
person his grinning old acquaintance was, but enter- 
tained a similar respect for him that he did for the 
Phenomenal McGuffin. j 

On the very evening that Harry Baine and the old 
postmaster were conversing with Edward Willets in the 
depot, the old ’Possum, through Lin Brinkerhoff’s assis- 
tance, secured a conveyance and started for the Mills. 

We can well imagine with what success his trip was 
attended. Nor can there be any question as to the 
statement he would make to Harlan Barretson about 
how he had dispatched Timothy Mannahan. 

Thus the wheel turned on until the old town clock 
of Cinapolis sounded out the hour of ten o’clock, on the 
very evening set apart from all other evenings for Mrs. 
Bethel to learn news of her children. j 

The letter she had received said between ten and 
eleven o’clock,” at the town pump just west of “ Gibbon’s 
Place.” As the last stroke of the old clock sounded, a 
figure, attired in a woman’s garb, came slowly along the 
street toward the well. When she came opposite, she 
stopped and seated herself on the curb, as if weary with 
long walking. 


OLD HINCHEY’s DEN, 


285 


The evening was very pleasant, and the full moon 
was just looking over the eastern horizon, and taking a 
lcng side-way glance up the streets and alleys that hap- 
pened to run parallel toward its coming up place. Up 
the street came its mellow light past “ Gibbon’s Place ” 
and many another deserted store-room along that con- 
necting thoroughfare, and fell full on the figure seated 
on the well curb. 

What sort of a face is this we see? Frowsy hair 
dangled over the flushed cheeks, and a general look of 
dissipation is plainly discernible. Perhaps it’s too much 
drink that caused her to stop and rest. Presently an old 
bent-over man, with a cloak that almost completely 
hides his face, came slowly up the street with a water pit- 
cher in his hand. By the time the old man reaches the 
well the woman on the curb is getting very sleepy. She 
nods and nods, and then starts up suddenly as if from a 
sleep. Just as the old man fills his pitcher, the woman 
takes a black bottle from her pocket, d rinks a long draught, 

!| and then brokenly says : “ Go-od, (hie) mi-g-ht-y go-od.” 
Then the old man stoops down and shakes the 
woman’s shoulder gently, and says, “ Does the good 
woman want to see some one ?” 

“ N-o, (hie) I am a-go-hing (hie) do-wn the ri-ver, 
I a-m, (hie).” 

“ Has the good woman,” said the old man, with great 
urbanity, “ any money she is afraid of losing !” 

“ I-, I-, g-o-t- n-o mo-ney (hie), give me so- me (hie).” 
Saying this she staggered to her feet and continued 


! to announce that she was “ go-in (hie) to th-e ri-ver 
(hie).” 


In one hand the old man held the pitcher of water 
and with the other he held fast to his cloak. He did not 
t venture another word, but followed the drunken woman 
as she staggered off down past “ Gibbon’s Place ;” he fol- 
lowed no further than the alley. 

A thin mist of cloud had spread itself like magic over 
the arched dome of the heavens, and shut out the light of 
the sentinel stars. Below the clouds and above the east- 
; ern horizon a narrow strip of sky could be seen, which 


286 


OLD HINCHEY *S DEN. 

was a good back-ground for the fire-red moon, so large 
and seemingly so near. Soon the moon climbed up out 
of the clear field of sky and buried itself in the inky folds 
of clouds that were getting thicker and darker and darker 
and thicker. 

A melancholy wind blew up a little, as if it could no 
longer hold its breath in suspense, but must expand its 
force and give vent to its pent-up feelings by coming 
down and watching the scene. 

Presently old Hinchey turned down the alley, mut- 
tering as he did so, “ Good luck for you, old Hinchey ; 
the wind is coming on. The harder the wind blows the 
more winning it is. Safes can be cracked, windows 
broken open and locks smashed, when the good old wind 
is blowing and roaring like a mad beast. Ah, those hard 
blows are winning winds for me.” Just as he turned 
down into the basement two dark figures crept cautiously 
down the steps after him. One was the drunken woman, 
and the other a figure in man’s apparel. 

Old Hinchey thought to carry the pitcher of water in- 
to his miserable apartments and then return to the town 
pump. He was greatly in hopes that Mrs. Bethel would 
come for her little boys. His last few weeks’ work had 
quite spoiled him for small transactions. 

He felt it would be quite a come-down to go into the 
silk handkerchief-stealing business again, since he had 
been doing so well lately with big contracts. He passed 
into tire inner room, leaving all the doors behind him 
unlocked, and as he struck a match he thought how busi- 
ness-like it would be if the law of the land would permit 
him to have an advertisement something like this — 

“ Working people off a specialty. Five thousand dol- 
lars per head. Address. O. H., Care of Herald Office.” 

The match went out as he was reaching it to the 
candle, and another had to be lit, and another and an- 
other. Finally, he succeeded in lighting the sputtering 
candle just as the old town clock struck the hour of 
eleven. 

“ So late as that,” cried Hinchey, “ I must be — — ” 

Before he could finish the sentence, the candle was 
blown out, and the next thing old Flinchey knew or 


OLD HINCHEl’S DEIST. 


287 


could comprehend, his arms were bound to his sides 
with a strong rope noose that had been thrown over 
his head. 

“ There,” said a voice between clinched teeth, “we 
have got you.” 

“Oh!” said Hinchey, struggling desperately to free 
himself, “ what does this mean ? It is a mistake. It is, 
it is.” 

“You cry out again like that, you old villain,” said a 
suppressed voice close to his ear, “and I will pull the 
trigger to this little piece of cord steel, the muzzle of 
which I will just rub against your forehead so that you 
may know she is in readiness.” 

While this conversation was going on, the hands 
of another strong man were busily engaged in tying 
and retying, with strong rough cord, old Hinchey’s 
hands behind him, and witheing his arms as fast to his 
sides and his feet as close together, as if they had been 
in a vise. 

He moved, or rather tried to move his arms ever so 
little, but was powerless. The cords cut into his wrists 
and impeded the circulation. 

“Have mercy on me,” old Hinchey called out, unable 
to keep still another moment. 

The hot breath of his captor and the cold muzzle of 
steel were felt by him at the same time on his forehead, 
and a hissing voice said : “ Call out that way just once 
more, and short work will be made of you.” 

I The blue point of a match was then scratched into 
a quick blaze, and the candle relit. Its fitful blaze as 
it flared up lit the damp basement, which seemed to be a 
well patronized storehouse for foul air. 

Hinchey was suffering excruciating pain from the 
thongs, which sank deep into his flesh. He was faint 
: with fear and almost dumbfounded with bewilderment. 

, For many years he had been a cruel master in villain- 
V ous deeds, but this was the first time he ever took the 
part of the bound slave since he was released from pen- 
itentiary, years ago. The threat to take his life fairly 
rang in his ears, and he was conscious that the threat 
could be very easily executed. 


288 


OLD HINCHEY’ S DEN. 


“ Blowing winds are always 4 winning winds * for me/' 
said a voice, just as the light burned up, so he could see 
plainly. 

Old Hinchey turned and confronted his former 
slave, Richard Tobias — alias Dick Dare — and at his 
side stood the drunken woman whom Hinchey a short 
time before had seen first at the town pump, and later 
go reeling and staggering away down the street. He 
then realized that he was the victim of a skillfully laid 
trap. 

The two little boys, or rather the two skeletons, came 
up just then and begged for a crust of bread. 

“ Is this Charlie and Freddie Bethel ?” asked the 
man in woman’s attire, who was none other than Harry 
Baine. 

“ Yes, sir,” lisped out the little boys together, and 
both their weak voices as they blended in one seemed so 
exhausted that they were hardly audible. 

Then, turning to the old villain, Harry said in a 
deep, triumphant voice : “ Old Hinchey, I’ve got you at 
last.” 

The old man groaned for an answer, and closed his 
restless eyes to shut out the sight of his captors. The 
ghastly grin was dethroned from his greasy, dirty coun- 
tenance, and his thin lips tightly pressed over his snags 
of teeth. 

Finally, starting up, he said in a low, whimpering 
voice : 

“ Oh, sir, pity an old man. You know, Dick,” said 
he, turning to Richard, “ that I was always kind to you ; 
gave you plenty of spending money and a home. Oh, 
my, oh, my, what will become of me ?” 

“ Yes,” said Richard, “you took me from a home, al- 
though a miserable one, yet it was richly furnished with 
honest and good intentions, and led me to a den of 
thieves of whom you were chief, and caused me to make 
my home among them. You gave me spending money 
in the shape of King Alcohol, who stole my judgment, 
my self-respect, my belief in a God, my manhood, and 
dulled the pain at my heart for a time, and made me 
your abject slave. When I tried to lead an honest life 


OLD HINCHEY’ S DEN. 


289 


you sought me out from among honest men, and labeled 
me with my former shortcomings.” 

‘‘Unbind me, gentlemen, my dear, dear gentlemen, 
and I will confess everything and go away from here 
forever.” 

“ Yes,” replied Harry, “ we will unbind you, — but not 
until these thongs have chains to take their place.” Then 
turning to Richard he said : 

“You take those starving boys to Burt, and he will 
tell you what to do, and I will quarter this fiend in- 
carnate in the inner stocks of the strongest Cinapolis'’ 
bridewell.” 

Richard at once took up the half-famished boys, one 
on either arm, and after groping his way to the street, 
hurried on toward Daniel Lester’s residence. 

After Harry had untied his feet, he told old Hinchey 
to face about and lead the way to the street. 

“ Oh, my dear, good friend,” said Hinchey, in a plead- 
ing tone, “ give me my liberty, and I will make you rich, 
oh, so rich !” 

“Do you think, you abominable old villain,” said 
Harry, angrily, “ that you can bribe me to give you your 
liberty ?” 

“ Don’t call me such hard names,” whimpered Hin- 
chey, “ I never did you any harm, or anybody else, — you 
mistake me for some other man.” 

“ I think I know some few pages of your history, old 
man,” said Harry, in his most scathing manner. “Who 
was it, sir,” he continued, “that blackened Leroy Pem- 
brooke’s life ? Who w^as it, sir, that murdered Mr. Bethel 
a few short years ago, and now steals these two babes 
j away from the widow T ed mother? Who was it that stole 
I fourteen thousand dollars at the Hampton depot, last 
* November? Who was it that kidnaped little Penfield 
Pembrooke, and tried to blacken his young life ? Who 
i 1 was it, sir, that attempted to murder George Tobias on 
j the cliff in your brother’s pasture, and did succeed in 
lj throwing him and Burt Lester over the slide ?” 

“ Was that Burt Lester, the detective ?” shouted the 
old man, almost frantically. “ Oh,” he shrieked between 
his clinched teeth, “ that I had killed him ! But,” he 
13 


290 


OLD HINCHEY’ S DEN. 


continued, calming a little, “ I never stole fourteen 
thousand dollars from a depot or any other place.” 

Harry cocked his revolver and placed the muzzle at 
the old man’s head, and in a calm, steel-toned voice said, 
“ Lead on, and no bad breaks, or I will get nervous.” 

Hinchey yielded to this persuasive style of argument, 
walked slowly out through the basement, and climbed, 
the stairway, closely followed by Harry. Just as they 
came from the alley out into the street they met a tall, 
strongly-built man, who, from the way lie looked up, 
was intending to turn down unto the very alley they had 
emerged from. 

Old Hinchey gave a significant groan as they passed 
this Goliath-looking stranger, and the next thing Harry 
knew he saw a great many stars, notwithstanding the 
cloudy weather. The second thing he knew, Emily Wil- 
lets was bending tenderly over him, bathing with ice- 
water an ugly gash he had received across the head. 

When he first opened his eyes, he was too indifferent 
to care where he was and too weak to make any effort 
to find out, had he cared, but presently the little soft 
hand, that was engaged in smoothing back his hair, was 
taken away, and then he looked up to see where it had 
gone to, and found it was employed in wiping the tears 
that would gather in beautiful Emily Willets’s eyes. 

They were not so dimmed, however, as not to quickly 
discover that Harry had awakened out of his slumber. 
He raised one of his hands up toward her, and she bent 
down to listen to what he might say, but Harry did not 
seem inclined to talk, but gently soothed back the golden 
tresses of Emily’s rich, wavy hair. 

“ You are feeling better, are you not ?” she said, in a 
low musical voice. 

“ Much better, thank you,” replied Harry. “Tell me 
where I am, how long since I came here, and where is 
old Hinchey ? Where is Richard ?” 

“ Oh, you are asking so many questions,” replied 
Emily gently, while a happy smile flitted likea sunbeam 
over her fair face. “You are at Mr. Dorris’s,” she went 
on, in a low, soothing voice, “and you have been here 
three days. No one knows where old Hinchey is, and 


OLD HINCHEY’S DEN. 


291 




Richard is at work as usual at the foundry. There, 
there, now you mustn’t tell anyone I have been talking 
to you,” she said, smilingly ; “ the doctor gave orders 
that you must be kept quiet.” As she remarked this, 
she poured out a potion of medicine from a vial, and 
said, “ It is time for you to take this.” 

The medicine was taken, and soon a drowsiness came 
stealing on, finally wrapping him in its restful embrace. 

When he awoke again, it was with a sensation of hav- 
ing had a most blissful rest, far better than any ordinary 
sleep he ever remembered having. Presently he remem- 
bered that he had had a very unpleasant dream. He 
dreamed that old Hinchey had him a prisoner in a dun- 
geon room, wdiere he lay burning up with a fever. The 
bed was like a pan of coals, uneasy and tiring, while day 
after day he had been tormented with a fierce and un- 
quenchable thirst. The weary, restless shiftings of his 
body kept pace with the ceaseless wandering of his mind 
up and down the long corridors of anxiety — a dim re- 
membrance of something having been left in an unfin- 
ished state. Thus he was continually haunted by dim 
and shadowy phantoms, that filled his memory with one 
long, unbroken chain of regrets. But it was only a 
dream ; now he was awake, and he felt so half uncon- 
sciously happy. 

Was it a dream or a reality that Emily had stood be- 
side him when he was awake before? He closed his eyes 
to study the matter over, and just as he did so he felt a 
hand laid gently on his forehand. He looked quickly 
up, and there stood dear old Burt Lester. 

“ Oh Burt !” said Harry, and straightway lifted his 
hand up toward him, but it seemed so very heavy ; it al- 
most exhausted him to lift his own arm, yet when he 
looked at it he discovered it was Wondrous white and 
very long and slim ; so much so, that he could count 
the very bones of his hand, and trace the course of the 
blue veins. 

“ Old boy,” Burt was saying, “ the tables are turned, 
— I am taking care of you, instead of you me.” 

“ How long,” asked Harry, “ since I came here ?” 

“Just three weeks and three days,” said Burt, as 
cheerfully as it was possible for him to speak. 


292 


OLD HINCHEY’S DEN. 


Harry lay perfectly quiet with closed eyes for a little 
while, letting his thoughts ramble as they would. Fin- 
ally, he summoned strength to ask, “Where is Emily?” 

“ Here I am,” said a sweet, rich voice, as she came to 
the bedside and took up his poor shriveled hand in hers. 

“Did you not tell me,” asked Harry, “that it was three 
days since I came here ?” 

“ Yes, I did,” said Emily, in a soothing, gentle way, 
“ and that was true, then, but that was a good many days 
ago.” 

“ Three weeks ago !” said Harry. 

Emily looked up at Burt Lester, who nodded and 
said, “ I told him.” 

Harry closed his eyes again, and a smile flitted over 
his sunken cheeks and high cheek-bones, and gently 
parted his thin blue lips. 

“ What is it, old boy ?” asked Burt, almost affection- 
ately. 

“ First, three days,” said Harry, “then three weeks. 
Don’t let me go to sleep again, or I won’t know anything 
for three months.” They laughed at his wit, and repeat- 
ed it to every member of the household, who also smiled, 
as they said, “He is getting better.” Yes, this was the 
commencement of Harry’s getting better. 

The long run of fever was broken up, and day by 
day he felt his strength coming to him. Burt or Emily 
was constantly by his side, and he told the former one 
day, in great confidence, that Emily’s very presence did 
him more good than all the vials of medicine on the 
table which stood near his bed. 

Burt told him how the little wisps of boys he and 
Richard had so bravely rescued, improved and grew 
quite strong, and that “Mrs. Bethel came the next day 
after they were rescued, and remained a couple of weeks, 
and Tobs, or I should say, Uncle George Tobias, got so 
interested in the little boys that he accompanied the 
widow home. Little Pen also went home with them. 
He is an own cousin to these little boys, Mrs. Bethel 
being his mother’s sister. We all think,” said Burt, 
smiling, “ that it was the widow as well as the little boys 
that Uncle George is so taken with.” 

“ What about old Hinchey ?” asked Harry. 




OLD HINCHEY’S DEN. 


293 


“ No one knows aught of him,” replied Burt, “ nor 
the large man who was with him. Richard got back to 
‘ Gibbon’s Place' just as you were felled to the ground, 
and he rushed up to where you lay, screaming for help 
with all his strength, and succeeded in scaring the large 
man and old Hinchey away. They turned down into the 
alley, and that was the last seen or heard of them. Now, 
old friend,” Burt went on, “you are getting to feel 
pretty strong, and I want to tell you about those who 
have been here ever since a few days after you were hurt.” 

“ Who ?” said Harry, impatiently. 

“ Well,” replied Burt, “before I tell you I must have 
your promise that you will not let it excite you a par- 
ticle.” 

“ I promise,” said Harry, “ tell me who is here, — my 
father ?” 

“Yes, and your mother.” 

Thus Harry’s convalescent days wore on, and it was 
not until the glorious Fourth of July that he was able 
to dress and accompany Emily Willets on morning walks 
and evening strolls. Then, and in such company, the 
morning and evening chased each other rapidly on, and 
the days fled by, and others came, one upon another. 
One upon another they heaped like the rolling waves of 
the sea, and with each ebb and flow of the swelling, re- 
treating tide he grew stronger and happier, and for a 
time was rocked in the cradle of blissful contentment. 

But after awhile the waves rippled and broke, then 
swung their white mariner caps above their heads, and 
huzzaed in the loudest, splashing, mad-capped way pos- 
sible, and all their cry, clear along the rocky beach, 
was — 

“ Bro-ken wa-ves, bro-ken wa-ves, broken wa-ves.” 

Presently the mist rose up from the waters a little 
and a tiny boat was seen with its anchoi securely cast, 
and where the white sail should have been, Emily Wil- 
lets’s gentle face could be dimly seen, and her sweet 
voice faintly heard as it blended and became a part of 
the oceans song : 

“ Bro-ken- wa-ves, bro-ken wa-ves, bro-ken wa-ves.” 


294 


THE HEW ENGLAND HOME. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


THE NEW ENGLAND HOME. 


T Cinapolis it is sultry July, with an occasional 



cool morning or evening. Harry Baine’s parents 


^ ■*“ have returned home to Dairyfield Farm, as he is 
now convalescent. 

Give us your hand, dear reader, and we will travel 
on the wings of thought to other scenes, also travel 
backward in time to the budding, blossoming month of 
May. Nothing equals the speed of our conveyance, 
“ thought.” Let us turn our faces New Englandward, 
to an old, rustic, country home. It is the home of Pen- 
field Pembrooke, Sr. Here Leroy Pembrooke, in years 
agone, was wont to romp and play in boyish glee, The 
brown stone house, with its massive oaken doors, is 
situated on a rise of ground. A beautiful grassy lawn 
stretches slopingly down to the highway in front. To 
the left we see the well-trimmed shade trees, and a little 
further on the vineyard, and then comes the old New 
England orchard. To the right of the buildings we see 
a bushy row of cherry trees, with numerous rockeries 
here and there. Evergreens are tastefully arranged 
through the wide lawn in front. Just beyond the row 
of cherry trees the earth seems to have been abruptly 
broken off, and for fully fifty feet, almost straight down, 
nothing but gray rocks can be seen, with an occasional 
mountain evergreen growing from out some narrow 
crevice. 

A winding flight of just even one hundred steps 
leads down to the water’s edge of the little stream that 
prattles on and on, the same to-day as it did a century 
ago. 

It is fed by numerous springs, and its waters are 
always fresh and cold. Just to the left of this rocky 
stairway, and a little above the water’s level in the 
gurgling, zig-zag stream, is a beautiful terrace opening. 
At the back of this terrace, a smooth boulder rock rises, 


THE HEW ENGLAND HOME. 


295 


almost ‘perpendicular, many feet high, while above and 
below it is thickly overhung with boughs and shrubbery. 
At the base of the large boulder a pretty little spring 
bubbles forth. A basin has been hewn in the rocky 
floor. Two rustic seats adorn the terrace, and, in the 
summer time, pots of vines and blooming fragrant flow- 
ers. It wears a mingled look of romance, beauty, and 
delightful seclusion. 

The time is blue-eyed May, the carnival month in 
twelve. The old earth has yawned and stretched, and 
is at last fully awake and clothed with a carpet of 
verdure, and enameled with fragrant flowers of every 
hue. 

The numerous fruit trees here and there have more 
the appearance of white banks of snow than aught else, 
and the air is ladened with a thousand delightful odors. 
The sun is low in the western sky, and the evening 
breeze, as it ripples gently through the tree tops, shakes 
down the ripened blossoms in snowy showers. 

Kittie Pembrooke and ’Rilla Tobias have just re- 
turned home from Mr. Stephen Baine’s where they have 
been visiting all winter. 

The old man, Grandfather Pembrooke, was overjoyed 
to see his pets, as he was wont to call them, but a shade 
of sadness, in furrows more deep than any that had 
marked his wrinkled face since his wife had died years 
before, gathered on his brow this evening. 

“Come to my side, Kittie,” the old man says, and 
quickly her lithe figure is standing by the old man’s easy 
chair. One of her hands rested gently on his shoulder, 
and the other was smoothing back confidingly the hoary 
locks from his forehead. 

“ Do you think, Kittie,” he asks, “that little Pen will 
ever be found, or do you think he is dead ? Tell me the 
truth, Kittie, for I must know.” 

“ I am sure, Grandfather,” she replies, “ that he is 
alive, and will come home to us some day. Harry Baine 
is searching for him, and I am quite crrtain he will be 
successful.” 

“ Oh Grandfather !” cries ’Rilla, as she comes run- 
ning out to the shady plot of mossy grass where they are 


296 


THE NEW ENGLAND HOME. 


sitting, “why didn’t you send my letters to me? Here 
are two letters from Mr. Willets, and one from his sister, 
Emily, bless her.” 

“ Why don’t you say,” inquired Kittie, mischieviously, 
“bless Mr. Willets, too?” 

“I really forgot, child,” the old man replies, “to 
send the letters. My memory is no account any 
more.” 

“ It is all right, grandfather,” says ’Rilla, “it is in- 
deed, I was only — ” 

“Only wanted,” interrupted Kittie, — and at the same 
time nudging the old man, — “to let us know that she 
had a letter from Mr. Willets,” and then the two young 
ladies broke into a merry, rippling laugh, in which even 
the old man partially participated. 

“ I’ll tell you, ’Rilla,” he said, “if Mr. Willets would 
forget the likes of you in so short a time, then indeed he 
is not worthy of you.” 

“ What does Emily say ?” asked Kittie, then in- 
nocently added, “ I know well enough what Mr. Willets 
says.” 

“Really, Kittie, I haven’t read her letter yet,” ’Rilla 
answers blushingly, — just as if she had no business to 
read the other letters first, — “ but I will read it at once,” 
she quickly added. “ Now, quit your laughing, you 
tormenting elf, or I will tell grandfather all about Burt 
Lester.” 

“Laughing,” repeats mischievous Kittie, “ I am not 
laughing, am I, grandfather ? I am as sedate and sober 
as a priest.” 

’Rilla opened the letter, and proceeded to read it 
aloud : 

“ Cinapolis, May ist, 18 — . 

“Dear ’Rilla: — I have not heard from you, it seems, 
for ages. My school closes the middle of next month, 
and then I am coming to visit with you, whether you 
want me to or not. I promised brother Edward that I 
would meet him at the train the morning of the six- 
teenth, and accompany him to a New England home. 
You, perhaps, can guess where that home is. Tell Kittie 
that I know all about Burt Lester, but I must never, 


TEE NEW ENGLAND HOME. 


297 


never tell how I found out, ha ! ha ! ! I fear your curi- 
osity would not be appeased any if I should tell you 
that I have met my fate, and he told me. I have never 
seen Grandfather Pembrooke, of course, but tell him 
that I learned to think a great deal of him while listen- 
ing to your own and Kittie’s ceaseless praise of him 
while at school, and that I shall insist on the right to 
call him grandfather. I wonder if this don’t sound 
something like woman’s rights? Tell him also that I 
have a surprise for him, a double one ; and as for you, 
•’Rilla, you precious girl, you will surely bless my com- 
ing. Oh ! I want to see you and Kittie so badly. I 
sometimes wonder if you care as much for my own little 
simple self as I do for you. Am I coming sure? Well, 
you will find out just as soon after the sixteenth of 
next month as the cars can bring us. Until then, good- 
by. 

‘‘Affectionately yours, 

“Emily Willets.” 

Kittie’s usual way of giving vent to happy feelings 
was to hug and kiss somebody awful hard, and as she 
was almost too jubilant to talk, she at once set to work, 
embracing first her grandfather and then ’Rilla in real 
downright earnestness. 

“Won’t it be grand !” she exclaimed, “and then to 
think, grandfather, she is going to give you a big sur- 
prise. I do wonder what sort of a present it will be, and 
you, dear ’Rilla, ‘ will bless her coming/ Those are her 
words, but,” Kittie added in rather a thoughtful mood, 
“she didn’t say that she would bring me anything.” 

“Never mind, Kittie,” said ’Rilla, “whatever she 
brings me I will give you half of.” 

“Except Mr. Willets,” said Kittie, and then her old 
merry laugh rang out again. 

“She is not,” retorted ’Rilla, “going to bring Mr. 
Willets — he is a going to bring himself.” 

The intervening days were busy ones at Grandfather 
Pembrooke’s, getting ready for Emily Willets and her 
brother. The sweetest apples are soonest eaten, and the 
shady drive too soon ended ; so, also, was it with the 
13 * 


298 


THE NEW ENGLAND HOME. 


month of budding May. It wore itself away, and June 
commenced slowly unwinding its thirty reels. The time 
was drawing near when the letter said they would come, 
but, instead, another missive came from Emily, which 
read as follows : 

“ Cinapolis, June 15th. 

“ Dear Rilla : — I know you will be disappointed, and 
perhaps half vexed, because of our not coming when my 
other letter said we would. But, oh, if you knew how 
miserably unhappy I have been, occasioned by the sick- 
ness of some very dear friends, I know I should have 
your full pardon and sympathy. Rest assured we will 
come just as soon as possible. I have written to brother 
Edward not to take his vacation yet awhile. I am al- 
most wornout with anxiety and loss of sleep. Good-by. 

“ Affectionately yours, 

“Emily Willets.” 

This letter the reader can understand much better 
than it was understood at Grandfather Pembrooke’s 
home. 

On a clear bright morning, about one month later, a 
happy party boarded the train at Cinapolis, bound for 
Grandfather Pembrooke’s New England home. They 
were Edward Willets and his sister, Emily, who carefully 
cared for little Bertha Pembrooke, Harry Baine, and 
Burt Lester, Uncle George Tobias, and old Tim Manna- 
han, Richard and little Pen. On the afternoon of the 
second day this party reached the little station of Green- 
wood. 

Richard Tobias was the only one of the party who 
was acquainted there. The very hills that stretched 
away like gently rolling waves from the little village 
station, seemed like old friends to him. Here he had 
wandered when a boy, in search of flowers in the spring- 
time, and later gathered wild plums and golden-rod 
from numerous groves and thickets. These were the 
hills that he thirsted to be divorced from, that he might 
learn the world. Oh, that it had ever remained a 
stranger to him ! 

The party made their way to the hotel parlors, which 


THE HEW ENGLAND HOME. 


299 


were on the second floor. The window doors opened 
out on a large portico. Here they assembled. “One 
mile,” said Richard, “ over yonder rise of ground is dear 
old Grandfather Pembrooke’s.” He said no more, but 
Dowed his head upon his arm. It was arranged that 
Edward and Emily Willets, with little Bertha, should 
drive out, taking Richard and Pen with them 

Accordingly a carriage was brought round, and they 
set out for a short drive over a stretch of road that was 
so old and familiar to Richard. Presently they heard a 
sob, and looking round found Pen in tears. On being 
asked why he was crying, Pen said he did not know nor 
could he tell all he felt and thought when riding thus for 
the first time over his poor papa’s childhood haunts. 
Thinking of his poor father’s past and his own present, 
what he had been and what he was now, the thorny paths 
of loneliness he had trod and his present great happi- 
ness, all seemed blending like the glorious colors of the 
rainbow into a wreath of inexplainable happiness, and 
he could not keep from crying. “Then,” he went on, 
“ I promised my father when he lay on his deathbed that 
I would one day come and bring this darling little, 
chubby-faced, sister Bertha to grandfather’s. He told 
me to name her Bertha, and Kittie would tell me why.” 
After this he grew thoughtful and silent, and no one 
ventured to break the silence of little Pen’s reverie. 

While they are driving slowly along, and the slant- 
ing shadows of the afternoon sun are growing longer 
and longer, it might be well to explain that neither Ed- 
ward nor Emily Willets had yet been informed that their 
mother was an own sister to Mrs. Daniel Lester and 
Timothy Mannahan. This was a secret that old Tim and 
our two detective friends alone knew. 

“ Ah, there is the old farm house,” cried Richard, as 
they came to a turn in the road. Yes, there it was, and 
there in the shady yard sat an old white-haired man, and 
on either side of him on low ottomans were seated ’Rilla 
and Kittie. 

The carriage draws up at the front gate, and soon the 
frisky horses are made fast to the hitching post, and our 
friends have climbed out and are walking slowly up the 
graveled walk, Richard and little Pen behind. 


300 


THE HEW ENGLAND HOME. 


“ Oh, it’s Emily !” shouts ’Rilla, “ and she has a baby !” 
Then both ’Rilla and Kittie meet and warmly embrace 
Emily and the little child. ’Rilla extends her hand to 
Mr. Willets, and assures him that she is indeed most 
happy at his coming. Kittie is then presented. 

By this time they are back to where Grandfather 
Pembrooke is seated. Richard and Pen are standing 
side by side a little apart watching the happy meeting. 

Emily says “ grandfather ” to old Mr. Pembrooke, 
just as she said she would in her letter. Richard then 
stepped forward, and reaching out his arm to ’Rilla, 
with great emotion said, “ My sister, have you forgotten 
me ?” 

“ Oh ! it’s Richard,” cried ’Rilla and Kittie in one 
voice, and in a moment more he was almost smothered 
with embraces. Old Grandfather Pembrooke trembling- 
ly takes Richard’s hand, while tears coursed their way 
down his furrowed cheeks, and lost themselves in his 
gray beard. “There is,” said he, “ more joy in Heaven 
over one sinner that repenteth than over the ninety and 
nine that go not astray.” “ Richard, my dear boy,” the 
old man continued, “ why did you not come back to me 
years ago ? I do not wish to chastise you, Richard, but 
I must repeat the words I whispered to you when you 
left this home for the last time, years, long years ago. 
I never have forgotten them, but have often wondered if 
you still remembered. These were my words when I 
took this same hand in mine at parting ; I said, ‘ Rich- 
ard, my boy, you are ambitious, but your ambition may 
cause you to bite the dust at your feet. Your proud 
associates may change to polluted creatures. Your 
warmest, fawning, flattering friends be transformed into 
villainous, treacherous enemies. When that time comes, 
Richard,’ said I, ‘ if it ever does come, do not let your 
manhood melt away like the morning dew before the 
sun, but turn from all the false colors and disappoint- 
ments of the world and come back to Grandfather Pem- 
brooke.’ Those were my words, and at last, thank God, 
you have come ! Ah, Richard, it is never too late to do 
right. You know how lenient I have always been to the 
memory of my only child, Leroy. I never sought out 


THE HEW ENGLAND HOME. 


301 


his shortcomings like a jealous enemy, as some fathers 
do, but rather looked over his errors and explained 
them away, and thought of his nobleness rather than any 
defects he may have had.” 

Richard took a low seat by the old man’s side, and 
wept like a child. He raised his hand toward little Pen, 
and tried to speak, but could not. After a moment’s 
pause, the little fellow stepped forward, and as he did so, 
the shimmering rays of the setting sun lit his pale face 
with a halo of light. 

‘‘Leroy Pembrooke,” said he, “was my father. I 
know his history. The world attempted to turn from 
him, and he, proud, noble man that he was, shook it off 
and it fell away, leaving him standing alone. He then 
sought the seclusion of a quiet retreat and listened alone 
to the melancholy sighing of the winds. He was still a 
proud man, and had no idea of ever seeking a compan- 
ion for his misery. Nor ever did he. He married again, 
but she, my mother, never knew aught of his other, his 
former life. 

“ On his deathbed, after my mother’s lamp had for- 
ever gone out, he drew me to his side and told me of 
you, dear grandfather, for whom I was named, and re- 
quested that I name this infant babe, that would be left 
likewise an orphan, ‘ Bertha,’ and said my older sister 
Kittie would one day tell me why. Ay, he told me 
more, — he told me to embrace with all my young heart 
my dead mother’s faith in the Bible, and seek not after 
a religion based on philosophy. He said 'to me then 
that he was going, — going, he knew not whither. The 
way was dark, — dark, — he could not see, but he was 
going, and said that before the evening of that day, on 
which he told me this, came on, he would be no more. 
He then buried his face in the pillows of his bed and 
wept. At least I thought he was weeping, until I touch- 
ed his brow, and found ’twas cold, — then I knew he was 
dead.” 

When Pen had finished speaking, he came close to 
Grandfather Pembrooke’s side, and laid his head on the 
old man’s breast. 

The old man encircled the sobbing boy’s waist with 


302 


THE NEW ENGLAND HOME. 


one arm and gently rested his other hand on his silken 
head. Then, in a slow, tremulous voice, said, “ Day 
unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night sheweth 
knowledge.” 

The happiness of this reunion was not disturbed by 
breaking up until long after the eastward shadows of 
tall trees and shrubbery, here and there, had blended 
together in the shade of nightfall, and the moon climbed 
up among the stars, and caused long shadows here and 
there to fall westward. 

Kittie took charge of little Bertha, and divided her 
time in kissing the little chubby-faced girl, hugging her 
brother Pen, and making every one feel perfectly at 
home. 

Zurilda Goodsil was in due time informed of the new 
situation of affairs. 

A few days after this, grandfather gave a dinner in 
honor of the occasion, and when all the guests were 
gathered around the table the old man opened his Bible 
and read the parable of the two sons — how the fatted calf 
was killed wdien the erring one returned. 

After the repast was over, little Pen withdrew and 
crept down the flight of one hundred steps to the shady 
terrace. His light feet made no noise, and when he 
came well down the steps he heard the familiar voice of 
Edward Willets. 

Pen drew near, and looked in the terrace, and there 
stood the Inimitable facing the large boulder rock. He 
was in a speech-making attitude, but in some way had 
got to a point over which his usually vivid imagination 
refused to carry him. 

“Am I intruding, Mr. Willets ?” asked Pen. 

The Inimitable turned about quickly, and said glow- 
ingly, “ No, my charming friend, no. In fact, I am 
deucedly glad you came. On the honor of a born gen- 
tleman I am. You will observe,” Willets went on, 
“ that I emphasize the word ‘ born/ instead of the word 
‘gentleman.’ Why do I do this ? Simply because I was 
left by my highly respectable parents a lone and lone- 
some orphan in the tender days of my infancy, as it 
were. Precipitated out of a lap of luxury, where I 


THE NEW ENGLAND HOME. 


803 


ruled supreme as a pet, into the cold, practical world, 
and that, too, at the very tenderest period of my earthly 
existence. Thrown recklessly and uncaringly out on 
the mercies and ruins of a financial wreck, that my father 
— sensitive man that he was — died to escape the sight of. 
Excuse me, my charming Pen, for doing all the talking, 
but I must not stop at this point in my narrative. No, 
I must say to you, sir, that I then and there turned my 
back on financial disaster, determined to run away from 
all the miseries and aggravating inconveniences that fol- 
low in its wake. But, sir, poverty is a deucealy hard 
thing for a poor man. and especially a poor orphan, to 
run away from. It increases or slackens its speed to 
accommodate yours. This I have learned by sad experi- 
ence. As I before observed, I turned my back on this 
wreck and ruin and squarely faced the world, but finan- 
cial difficulties and the annoying inconveniences natur- 
ally arising therefrom, has ever bee 
orphan, Edward Willets, Esq. It haj 
upon my heels, and on divers occasio 
tripped me up. In short, sir, financi: 
pecuniary embarrassments have ever been my besetting 

_ • _ >y 

sin. 

“ Are you in need of any money now ?” asked Pen. 

“No, my charming young sympathiser, no,” replied 
Willets, “for once in my life, sir, I can truthfully say 
that I have abundance of filthy lucre in my pocket. The 
fact is I have a job on hand that must be attended to 
this very evening, and I am just giving my mind a turn 
around the race track to get it limbered up, as it were. 
Yes, to-night, my charming boy, by the silver light of 
the rising moon, I propose to propose. In other words, 
she in whom I hold thirty dollars of paid-up stock shall 
have an opportunity to accept or reject my hand, my 
heart and my fortune.” 

“ Your fortune, Mr. Willets ?” said Pen. “ I thought 
you told me you were poor.” 

“ And so I am, just at the immediate present,” an- 
swered the Inimitable; “ pecuniary embarrassments in 
the shape of unpaid bills are liable to flock around me 
any moment like buzzards, and shut out the beaming 


304 


THE NEW ENGLAND HOME. 


rays of happiness, but for all that I have a fortune. 
Hush ! It is a secret.” 

“ Where is it, Mr. Willets?” asked Pen. 

“ In perspective,” answered the Inimitable, while he 
shut one eye and looked beamingly and confidentially 
at Pen, with the other. “Yes,” said Willets, drawing 
closer to Pen, “ it is in perspective, and, to be honest, it 
is a devil of a long way oft yet. Still, it looks large, 
notwithstanding the great distance, and I venture to 
stake my reputation that when I get it she’ll pan out to 
be a whopper.” 

“ Hark !” said Pen, some one is calling me.” 

“ I think it is your charming sister, Kittie,” said the 
Inimitable; “come, I will accompany you hence from 
this sequestered spot.” 

They climed the one hundred stone steps, and joined 
the rest of the party, who were assembled on the shady 
lawn. Grandfather Pembrooke’s easy chair had been 
brought out, and his guests were seated around him, 
some on chairs and ottomans, others on rustic seats, and 
others still reclining in swinging hammocks. 

When the afternoon had worn itself away, and night 
time came on, little Pen was shown to the room that from 
thenceforth was to be his, by his sister Kittie. 

“Grandfather,” she said, “did not want you to see 
this room until we had it aired and all in perfect readiness, 
and that is why you have not been shown in here before.” 

Kittie closed the door, and holding the lamp in one 
hand, opened the doors of the wardrobe. “ This room, 
dear brother, ” said Kittie, “was our father’s when he 
was a child, and here in this old wardrobe are relics of 
his childhood’s dress.” 

“ Were those little boots his ?” asked Pen, pointing 
to a pair of tiny, copper-toed boots. 

“Yes,” said Kittie, “they were his, half-worn out as 
you see, with the once mud, now dry earth, still clinging 
to them, just as he took them off. Here is the little 
waistcoat he used to wear, and this was his first suit of 
clothes. See how they are worn shreds at the knees and 
elbows. They have been patched once you will observe, 
and the patches are worn out. This is his home- made 


THE HEW EHGLAHD HOME. 


305 


straw hat that he wore in summer, and this is his little 
winter cap/’ 

“Oh! Kiltie,” cried Pen, “to think that our poor 
father should have been exiled from all this through the 
avaricious and wicked planning of old Hinchey. It is 
left to me, dear sister, to revenge my father’s wrongs. 
All these long years you, and grandfather, and every- 
body thought our poor misjudged parent was guilty of 
the double crime of murder and theft. What did grand- 
father say when Richard told him that old Hinchey was 
the guilty one ?” 

“Oh, he wept,” said Kittie, “for gladness to think 
that he had never censured his son.” 

Then both Kittie and Pen gave way to their feelings, 
and had a good cry. After which, she kissing Pen good 
night, bade him cry no more, saying, “ We are spared to 
each other, and have a darling little sister to love.” 

When Pen was left alone he drew the curtain aside 
so that the rising moon might look in at him, and then 
made ready and climed into bed, wondering as he did so, 
if Edward Willets and ’Rilla were in the terrace at the 
foot of the hundred steps, and whether they didn’t find 
that Harry Baine and Emily Willets were there ahead of 
them, and whether his sister Kittie and Burt Lester 
would not go down, too, sometime. 

While he thus let his thoughts go wandering on; he 
fell asleep and dreamed that an old man, with flowing 
hair and beard as white as the driven snow, came and 
stood by his bedside, and with a wand, which he held in 
his right hand, pointed to a small solitary window, 
square in shape and cased round with heavy casings. It 
looked out upon a wide waste of waters, that stretched 
miles and miles away. Little Pen gazed at the broad 
ocean rolling so majestically before him. He listened, 
and heard the plaintive sighing of melancholy winds as if 
afar off. It sounded like the mysterious, yet ceaseless 
murmur of the sea shells. Then he heard a tiny voice 
come sweeping over the waters, which seemed to blend 
with the murmuring of the sea as it said, “ Man born of 
woman is of few days and full of trouble. He cometh 
forth like the flower and is cut down. He fleeth like the 


306 


THE PUGILIST. 


shadow and continueth not.” Then the voice ceased, 
and little Pen half-wakened and thought he saw his 
Grandfather Pembrocke glide silently away from his 
bedside. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE INIMITABLE TURNS PUGILIST. 

RANDFATHER PEMBROOKE would not lis- 



ten to Richard’s going back to Cinapolis, but 


insisted on his remaining at the old home. “ I 
intend,” said the old man, “to send Penfield away to 
school in a few weeks — as soon as the September term 
opens — and I want you, Richard, to content yourself 
here on the farm, the entire charge of which I will give 
over into your hands.” 

Both ’Rilla and Kittie, and also Pen, joined with 
the old man in persuading him to remain. 

“ I will tell you, grandfather,” said Richard, with 
come emotion, after he had listened to their entreaties, 
“ I will accept your kind invitation and remain, though 
I feel that I long ago forfeited all claim of even friend- 
ship upon you and Kittie, and kinship to my dear sister 
here, but I am no longer a slave to my old master, strong 
drink. Strong drink, grandfather, is the floodgate that 
trembles over the young men of our land. It opens 
with the clinking of social glasses, and bears its victims 
down the swift and irresistible current to the depths of 
all vices, crime and ruin. When a young man becomes 
a slave to strong drink he also becomes a servant of in- 
iquity. I have been such a slave and such a servant, and 
am not worthy of your kindness.” Richard could no 
longer keep back the tears ; bowing his head upon his 
hands, he wept like a child. 

“ Tut, tut,” said the old man, while a tear trickled 
down his furrowed cheek, “think not of the past, Rich- 
ard, but of the happy present and a bright future.” 


THE PUGILIST. 


307 


“ Excuse me for interrupting, ” said Harry Baine, ap- 
proaching soon after. 

“No interruption,” said the old man. 

“I came to say,” continued Harry, “that our happy 
party will probably break up this afternoon, and be- 
fore it does I have some hidden links of kinship to 
explain that will be of interest to some of your guests.” 

At Grandfather Peinbrooke’s suggestion Kittie at 
once assembled the happy party in the large parlor of 
the old stone mansion. 

Harry Baine again stepped forward, and in his clear, 
musical voice, said : 

“Kind friends, it devolves on me to acquaint 
you with some links of kinship that for years have 
been lost and only lately discovered. This old gentle- 
man at my left here, whom I have introduced to you as 
Mr. Timothy, is Timothy Mannahan, who for more than 
thirty years has resided in America, but will soon start 
for old England to take charge of a large landed estate 
that comes to him by inheritance. He had two sisters, 
one of whom is living, the other dead. One sister mar- 
ried Mr. Daniel Lester, and their oldest child is Mr. Burt 
Lester, the famous detective, who is one of us to-day. 
The other sister married a Mr. Willets. Both Mr. and 
Mrs. Willets died long years ago, but their representa- 
tives here to-day are their children, Edward and Emily 
Willets, and their old uncle here, Timothy Mannahan, 
assures me that he is most happy to meet them in this 
newly discovered relationship. 

“ I am not thrpugh yet, my friends,” said Harry. 
“We have found' that Richard and ’Rilla Tobias’s 
mother was an own sister to Mr. Daniel Lester, thus 
making them cousins of Mr. Burt Lester.” 

A wild and joyful scene followed these announce- 
ments. Everybody was shaking hands with everybody 
else, and calling each other cousin. 

The following day Uncle Tim Mannahan took leave 
of his nieces and nephews, and in company with Uncle 
George Tobias started for New York, where they en- 
gaged passage for Liverpool on the first outward bound 
steamer. 

It seems that Uncle George Tobias and Timothy 


308 


THE PUGILIST. 


Mannahan were schoolmates in childhood. Edward 
Willets started for Hampton the next day, to resume his 
duties as operator. Just before taking his leave he 
chanced to meet Pen in the hall alone. “Pen, my 
charmer, I have a word to say to you in private.” 

“ Come this way to my room,” said Pen, “ and then 
we will not be interrupted.” 

When the privacy of his room was reached, Pen in- 
vited Mr. Willets to a chair, but that lengthy gentleman 
only said. “ Thank you; I prefer standing that I may 
the better be -enabled to keep the numerous skeins of 
thought from becoming tangled. You remember, my 
dearest boy,” observed the Inimitable, in a glowing, 
suppressed way, “ that I explained to you a few evenings 
ago, when down in that sequestered terrace at the foot of 
the stone steps, that by the mellow light of that night’s 
moon I would offer myself a living sacrifice, as it 
were.” 

“ Halloo ! carriage is ready. They are calling for 
you, Mr. Willets,” said Pen. 

“Just so, just so,” said the Inimitable, at the same 
time placing the extreme end of his long big-jointed 
forefinger against little Pen’s shirt front, as if he would 
hang the little fellow up on this spear-shaped finger of 
his, if he attempted to get away from him. “All I 
wanted to say, my charming boy, was this : she is tender. 
Now I make no statement, my dear boy, remember, I 
make no statement of any kind, do I ?” 

“ No-I-guess-not,” said Pen, “only — ” 

“ Only,” interrupted Willets, “that ‘she is tender.’ I 
didn’t say who was tender, and I will not say. No, sir ; 
secrecy, my boy, is an attribute second only in grandeur 
to a poetic inclination.” 

The Inimitable then removed his finger prop, and 
little Pen led the way to the lawn in front, where the 
household were assembled to bid Mr. Willets good-by, 
which ceremony was cut noticeably short by the driver 
announcing it as a firm belief of his that they would miss 
the train. 

When Willets came to Pen, he stooped down and 
whispered, “ She is tender,” then nimbly climbed into 


THE PUGILIST. 


309 


the carriage and was driven rapidly away toward Green- 
wood station, where he arrived just in time to swing upon 
the already moving train. 

Both Harry Baine and Burt Lester had already re- 
ported for duty to Lawyer Westover, and returned to 
Hampton some three days in advance of the Inimitable. 

One of their first acts on reaching the village, after 
meeting the detective who had been acting in Burt Les- 
ter’s stead, and getting from him such information as he 
had ferretted out, — which really amounted to nothing 
positive, — was to take the stage coach for the Mills, and 
drive out to the Phenomenal McGuffin’s farm, with the 
proper papers in their possession for his arrest on the 
charge of being an accomplice in attempting to take the 
life of Uncle George Tobias, known by the nickname 
“ Tobs ” at the farm. 

They approached the house, and were met by Mrs. 
McGuffin, who told them that her husband had gone 
away from home on an extended trip to California, and 
that she did not know when he would return. 

“ Could you inform us,” said Harry, “ where a letter 
would reach him ?” 

“ I have only received one letter from him,” she re- 
plied, “ and he charged me to tell no one where he w 7 as 
and I dare not disobey him,” said the care-worn, timid 
woman, while she looked frightened at the very thought 
or disobeying the stern command of her cruel husband. 

“ Oh ! it makes no difference,” said Burt, carelessly, 
“ only we heard he had some land to sell, and we came 
to see him about purchasing.” 

“ I didn’t know,” replied the woman, “ that he wanted 
to sell any of his land, though very likely he may, and I 
know nothing about it.” 

Harry Baine withdrew presently — leaving Burt and 
Mrs. McGuffin engaged in conversation — and strolled 
about the yard. He finally got around to the back part 
of the house, and straightway approached the rail pile to 
search for the satchels he had hid there on that fatal 
morning when Burt Lester and George Tobias came so 
near losing their lives at the cliff. 

Sure enough, there the satchels were, just as he had 


310 


THE PUGILIST. 


stowed them away. He quickly brought them forth 
from their hiding place, and carried them by a back way 
to the carriage in which they had driven out from the 
Mills. 

Soon after he came back around the same corner of 
the house around which he had disappeared, observing, 
as he joined Burt and Mrs. McGuffin, that they certainly 
had a beautiful country home. 

The detectives, after giving the lady their names, Mr. 
Smith and Mr. Jones, took their departure. 

“ I tell you,” said Burt, as they seated themselves in 
the carriage, and turned their horses’ heads toward the 
Mills, “ that woman is a good, true wife, but a terribly 
abused one. She is made of finer clay than her brutal, 
avaricious husband.” 

“ I heartily agree with you,” replied Harry. “ McGuf- 
fin is one of those coarse, illiterate, fortunate men, who 
seemingly by accident stumble into the possession of 
great wealth, marry far above themselves, and then take 
especial delight in trying to crush out and blunt the 
finer feelings of their helpless wives.”' 

“ Yes,” said Burt, “ he is one of those self-important 
ignoramuses who look on any man who does not fully 
agree with him as a crank of the first water, but regards 
the man who cows to his whims, and agrees with him 
fully, as a remarkably intelligent persou.” 

They then got down to sober talk and discussed 
numerous plans of finding out McGuffin’s whereabouts. 
What conclusion they came to may be inferred by their 
having a long conversation with Mrs. O’Riley, the post- 
mistress at the Mills, who entered heartily into their 
plans, promising what they requested. 

They took passage in the Hampton-bound stage soon 
after, and as they were the only passengers, had ample 
opportunity to discuss their future plans. It was agreed 
that Harry should remain at Hampton in the capacity of 
tank inspector, and watch Lin Brinkerhofif’s movements, 
and be ready to act if any information came from the 
Widow O’Riley relative to McGuffin’s whereabouts. 
Burt would start the next day for Milford to keep Law- 
yer Lawson company, and learn what he could. They 


THE PUGILIST. 


311 


both agreed that the finding of the fourteen thousand 
dollars was paramount to all else, and the hunting down 
of Hinchey and McGuffin a secondary matter, although 
both felt that the success of the one was in some way 
dependent on the other. 

It was after nightfall when they reached Hampton, 
and so they concluded to take up their old accustomed 
place of concealment at the depot for awhile, and endea- 
vor to learn something if possible. 

“ I tell you, Burt,” said Harry, in a half whisper, “ it 
certainly will not be many months longer until we will 
unearth something/’ and sanguine Burt agreed with him. 

They little guessed how many moons would pass 
over their heads before the winds of adversity would 
cease, and changing their course become “ winning 
winds,” for them. 

The detectives approached the depot cautiously, and 
discovered that the Inimitable Willets had returned. 
Yes, there the long, sandy individual was, he and Lin 
Brink erhoff. 

“You do not think, Burt,” whispered Harry, “that 
Willets, who is your cousin, you know, is in any way 
connected with this fourteen thousand dollar busi- 
ness ?” 

“That is the hardest question,” replied Burt, “ that 
you could have asked me. Cousin or no cousin, if he is 
guilty he shall suffer.” 

“Hist ! look there,” said Harry. “ Willets and young 
Brinkerhoff are drinking champagne. What is that 
they are saying ?” 

“My charming Mr. Brinkerhoff,” said Willets, “I 
cannot adequately express to you my feelings at the 
present moment. I no longer call you by your first 
name. No, sir, you are now a Mister. Any young 
gentleman who has passed through the school of telegra- 
phy, as you have done, and slipped out of the front door, 
as it were, with my blessing — please remember that— and 
reappeared again as a brother official of mine, is worthy 
to be Mistered. Mr. L. Brinkerhoff, night operator at 
Hampton. Mr. Edward Willets, day operator at Hamp- 
ton, Ah ! how dignified that rings out on the night 
air.” 


312 


THE PUGILIST. 


I thank you very much, Mr. Willets,” said Lin, 
“ indeed I do, for the great assistance you have been to 
me. I can now earn money and in time attend college.” 

“ Mr. Brinkerhoff, there is my hand,” said Willets, 
with knightly solemnity. “You are worthy of it, my 
charming Lin, — Mister, I should say — and in extending 
it to you I am only complying with my poetic inclina- 
tions, my religious tendencies, my moral sense of justice 
and the scholarly dictates of my well informed and 
highly cultured mind. Moreover, it is in good keeping 
and perfect harmony with the eternal fitness of things.” 

The two then shook hands warmly, and the Inimit- 
able, after wiping away the gathering perspiration from 
his brow, said : “ There is a beautiful little melody that 
in early youth I learned while yet the pet of a loving 
household, one line of which I still remember. It is as 
follows : 

‘ Champagne Charlie is his name/ 

“Now, Mister Brinkerhoff, in solemn commemora- 
tion of the sentiment therein expressed, permit me, sir, to 
present you with another foaming glass of sparkli 
dancing Mumm’s Extra Dry, which, I doubt not, will 
cause the already burning coals of friendship to blaze 
up with a new life, and send the snapping, laughing 
sparks of hillarity soaring away on the wings of ever- 
lasting friendship, and join company with the merry 
twinkling stars above.” 

At this they emptied their glasses. 

Lin observed that it was indeed a most pleasant dipnk, 
and the Inimitable, filling the glasses again, remarked 
that being a “Repeater” himself, he would not take 
time to give another toast until he had treated the glass 
of champagne already in his stomach to an affable com- 
panion. 

After the second glass had been disposed of, Willets 
seated himself, and said : “I have just flown from the 
arms, as it were, of my lady love, and in drinking this 
champagne I am tempering off from the intoxicating 
happiness that I have so lately experienced. And now 
that I think of it, how deucedly appropriate to my case 
are the immortal Waller’s words, where he says — 


THE PUGILIST. 


313 




In love, the victors from the vanquished fly; 
They fly that wound and they pursue that die.* 


“From these words, my charming Mr. Brinkerhoff, 
you would naturally infer that I had vanquished some- 
thing. That something had received a life wound at my 
hands. If such should be your surmises, I will only say 
that they are about correct.” 

“I am afraid, Mr. Willets,” said Lin, getting a little 
less timid, — even approaching a reckless air, by reason, 
possibly, of his promotion, but more probably be- 
cause of the natural effects of Mu mm’s Extra Dry — 
“ that you are inclined to be a heart bruiser of no mean 
ability.” 

“ Sir,” said Willets, rising to his feet, “ the words you 
give utterance to are indeed most highly commendable 
in one so young, so unsophisticated, and on general 
principles so ignorant of the ways of the world. It 
proves conclusively, sir, to my mind, that you are pro- 
gressing.” 

These well meant words of compliment rather 
galled instead of pleased Lin, and he quickly retort- 
ed : 

“ I may be young, Mr. Willets, but don’t forget that 
I have the counsel of a sister who is older.” 

“And,” said Willets, “a most charming young lady 
she is. Perfectly stunning, decidedly so, sir.” 

“ I call my sister a handsome lady, Mr. Willets, but 
I don’t care to hear you use the slangy phrase ‘ stunning ’ 
when speaking of her.” 

Young Brinkerhoff delivered himself of this speech 
in a tone of withering scorn, which he hurled with an 
evil look at the Inimitable. 

Willets quickly caught his cue, and replied in his 
usual urbane style : “ Certainly, my charming Mister 

1 Brinkerhoff, your sister is most assuredly a remarkably 
handsome woman, and with due deference to yourself 
and not meaning to infer anything, I will also say, by 
way of confession, that I can see no family resem- 
| blance between yourself and this charming sister of 
U yours.” 


14 


314 


THE PUGILIST. 


“I discover, Mr. Willets,” said Lin, “that your 
sarcasm is as sharp as your compliments are uncalled 

° r '“ And I discover,” replied Willets, quickly, “that 
your would-be retorts are as dull as your cranky peevish- 
ness is absurd. I freely admit, in making this last 
statement, my charming Mr. Brinkerhoff, that our con- 
versation is taking a turn wholly at variance with tie 
poetic harmony of the occasion. Therefore, I propose j| 
that we ‘drive dull care away’ by participating in an- 
other glass of ‘the sparkling.’ Nothing, sir, equals the 
‘ sparklino-.’ Ye Gods ! What an eradicater it is. it 
scatters the troubles that beset a heavy heart like turp- 
entine scatters every vestige of a swelling. Something | 
very remarkable, sir, about its wondeiful power. e 
poor become suddenly rich, the downcast and sorrowful, 
light-hearted and merry, the almost frozen warmed 
back into a glowing warmth,' and the bashful man be- 
comes communicative. Such, sir, are a few of the many 
changes that are miraculously brought about that is, 
miraculously sudden— by a convivial acquaintanceship 

with ‘ the sparkling.’ ” , . , . . 

Thev then drank again, and after this Lin seemed to 
grow better natured, and they grew quite communicative. 
At last the Inimitable arose and said, in his own happy 
way, “ My charming companion, I must soon—” Here 
he picked up the champagne bottle and saw that it was 
well-nigh emptied— then added, “Yes, very soon, bid you 
good night, and seek my pillowy couch at my new yet 
old quarters, and there be lulled away into a refreshing 
repose ; though in doing it I well know I am not only 
sacrificing your sociable companionship, but also pur- 
suing a widely different course than that intimated in 
those beautiful words by the illustrious what s-his-name 
—it makes no difference— where he eloquently says : 

‘ No sleep till morn, 

When youth and pleasure meet, 

To chase the glowing hours 
With flying feet.’ ” 

« Are you not still boarding at the hotel ?” askerl 

Lin. 


THE PUGILIST. 


315 


“ No, sir ! a thousand times, no !” said Willets, warmly. 
“ Do not, mv charming companion, for an instant sup- 
pose that I would longer patronize an establishment 
that sets such abominably tough steaks before his guests 
as old Scud more purchases. If you, my-never-to-be-for- 
gotten friend, entertained a thought that I still would 
remain an inmate of that third-class boarding house, 
pray disabuse your intelligent mind of the erroneous im- 
pression at once. From henceforth, sir, I am domiciled 
at Miss Zurilda GoodsiFs. Returned to my first love, as 
it were.” 

“ What room did you occupy, Mr. Willets, at the 
hotel ?” asked Lin. 

“ I was quartered, sir,” replied the Inimitable, “in 
room No. — No. — . Look here, my highly esteemed 
friend, did I ever tell you in any of my previous talks, 
what room I occupied ?” 

As Willets made this inquiry he scratched his sandy- 
coated head and looked shrewdly at Lin, as if he was 
fearful that newly promoted gentleman was trying, to get 
him to perform impossibilities by telling alike the same 
story twice. 

“You told me,” replied Lin, “that your room was on 
the first floor, and I wondered what number it was.” 

“ Oh, yes, so I did !” replied Willets, and then ob- 
served — talking more to himself than to Lin — that it was 
a narrow escape and a deucedly close call, whereupon he 
took a lengthy pull at the champagne bottle, so lengthy, 
indeed, that when he set it down there was nothing but 
j an empty bottle left to adorn the table. 

“ I see you are a full hand at some things,” said Lin, 

; eyeing the empty bottle with an eye of disfavor. 

“ My complimentary friend,” said Willets, “ I freely 
m acknowledge that I am possessed of several remarkable 
| traits, but if one thing above another it is long-winded- 
|l ness, especially if the ‘ one thing ’ is a well-filled cham- 
v pagne bottle, and the ‘ above another ’ are my thirsting 
I lips — lips, sir, that once upon a time in life, when acting 
i; in the envied capacity of a household pet — were red and 
it rosy as the budding flower ; but, alas ! at the present 
writing they are slightly dilapidated and weather cracked, 


316 


THE PUGILIST. 


as it were, occasioned, no doubt, by the cruel storms of 
adversity.” 

“ I beg your pardon, Mr. Willets,” said Lin, “ you 
did not tell me the number of the room you occupied at 
the hotel ?” 

“ I see, my inquisitive .companion,” said the Inimit- 
able, “ that you insist in extorting from me the particular 
locality in that abominable old hull of a hotel, where I 
was wont to lay this weary frame down to rest. It was, 
sir, room No. 47.” 

“ Why, that — it is not on the first floor — 47 is a garret 
room,” said Lin, while a triumphant smile hovered on 
his flushed countenance. 

“ I beg your pardon, sir, it is on the first floor, count- 
ing from the roof,” replied Willets, “ and now,” he went 
on, “ I want to say a word in reference to the hotel, its 
bill of fare and the detestable scab, old Scudmore, the 
proprietor.” As he said this he arose to his feet again, 
but neither he nor Lin observed a face, that just then 
appeared at the open door, which in point of resemblance 
favored the landlord in question. 

“ First,” said Willets, bringing that familiar big and 
long-jointed finger of his into play, “ in regard to the 
hotel — if I may be pardoned for calling a third-class 
boarding house by such a name — there positively is not, 
sir, a sound piece of lumber in the whole structure from 
cellar to garret, and every crack and crevice in the old 
hull is absolutely alive with a squirming, crawling, bit- 
ing class of permanent lodgers, growing fat and sassy off 
the blood of transient victims, who are compelled by 
necessity to sleep, or try to, in the most miserable ex- 
cuses for beds that it was ever my lot to lay my weary 
bones upon. A constant warfare is necessary to preserve 
life. The siege is laid the very moment the unfortunate 
victim strikes the bed in the attitude of repose, and is 
not raised until the transient lodger rises from his couch. 
Second, in regard to the bill of fare ” 

“No, you don't ! no, you don’t !” cried the man who 
had been looking in at the door, and who was none 
other than Mr. Scudmore, the proprietor. “No, you 
don’t say another word about my highly respectable 


THE PUGILIST. 


317 


house.” As he said this he advanced toward the Inimit- 
able with clinched fists and a threatening manner. “ I'll 
teach you, sir,” said he, “ to slander and tell malicious 
lies about my first-class hotel.” At this he rushed head 
first toward Willets, chewing the very air between his 
grating teeth in the fullness of his rage. 

Instead, however, of assaulting an individual who 
was destitute of pugilistic powers, he came at one who 
was able, and did compliment him with a staggering 
blow on the head. The landlord recovered from its 
effect in a moment, however, and then he and the In- 
imitable clinched in an angry embrace ; but one of 
Willets’s long arms was free, and with it he fairly rained 
down on his assailant such a shower of shoulder strokes 
that the landlord was very soon convinced he was deal- 
ing with a skillful and experienced hand at the business. 
However, the plucky Mr. Scudmore clung tight to the 
long, lithe form of his opponent, and did such effective 
work with his teeth, that it was several minutes before 
he begged Willets to hold on and cease his pelting 
knocks. Willets released his burly adversary and each 
stood eyeing the other, panting like half-famished 
curs. 

Finally Willets found breath, and said: “Does the 
gentleman who runs the third class boarding-house want 
some more?” 

Scudmore, between his pants, said no, he believed 
not. 

This made the Inimitable wax brave, and he exult- 
ingly said : “Sir, I am always loaded for bear, and I can 
whip you any day within an inch of your life in just 
three minutes. Could do it in one minute, if you hadn’t 
practiced chewing tough beefsteak so long that you have 
wonderful strength in your jaws. Did you say you 
wanted some more ?” Willets went on clinching his 
fists, and assuming sparring attitudes, and prancing 
about the vanquished Mr. Scudmore, threatening every 
moment to give him one for luck, anyway. 

“ I have a full stock on hand, sir. Am always loaded. 
I am a slugger from Sluggersville, I am. Can knock 
down more men than a corporal’s guard can drag out. 


318 


AT CIIALMER UNIVERSITY. 


Don’t be bashful, sir — plenty in the factory if you want 
more. I am a pulverizer, an old time shoulder-striker 
from away back.” 

While the Inimitable was relieving himself in this 
way, Mr. Scudmore stood trembling with fear, expect- 
ing every moment that Willets would open a deadly 
assault. 

“I guess, Mr. Willets,” Lin observed, “that Mr. 
Scudmore has had all the fighting he cares for to- 
night.” 

“ That’s a fact, I have,” said the landlord quickly, 
looking around at Lin, as if he was very thankful for 
the observation. 

“ You are quite sure?” asked Willets. 

“Quite sure,” replied Mr. Scudmore. 

“Very well then,” said Willets, “your statement 
being true, Mr. Scudmore, you will please face about 
and scud.” The order was obeyed by the vanquished 
landlord with military promptness and soon after the 
Inimitable bade Lin good-night, and started for the spin- 
ster’s, singingin a low, happy way snatches of old love 
songs, wholly unconscious as he walked along that a 
dark figure hovered near him, ever and anon growing 
closer and closer, and then hastily drawing back like 
fretful advancing and retreating shadows on the angry 
bosom of troubled waters. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

AT CHALMER UNIVERSITY. 

F IVE years in the future seems a long, long way 
off. Especially is this true with the young, who 
wait so impatiently for another birthday to come 
around, or for the merry Christmas Holidays, ail event 
that is ever welcome to the happy, expectant hearts of 
those in the morning of life’s journey. 

Their cup of care-free happiness is as full as the dew 


AT CHALMER UNIVERSITY. 


319 


is plentiful on the tender herbage in early morning. 
Yet, after a five years’ journey has been performed, and 
we pause and look back, we unvoluntarily exclaim ; 
“Ah ! how short the years have been. It seems but 
yesterday since I was a romping child on the green.” 

Thus it was that five years rolled swiftly away since 
the curtain fell on the scenes in our last chapter, and 
opened in this. Between these acts, strange as it may 
seem, nothing of particular importance had transpired. 
Our two detective friends, Burt Lester and Harry Baine, 
are still following up and trying to ferret out that which 
has now for almost six years baffled them. 

A dozen different times they have believed themselves 
almost in a position to reach out and recover the four- 
teen thousand dollars, and as often have they been dis- 
appointed. 

The Inimitable Willets is still day operator at Hamp- 
ton, and pecuniary troubles hover about him as of old. 
Neither McGuffin nor old Hinchey have been seen or 
heard of since they so suddenly disappeared. 

Lin Brinkerhoff is now a young man, seventeen 
years old, and during all these five years has faithfully 
filled the position of jiight operator at Hampton, and in 
every square moment he has had, has assiduously ap- 
plied himself to his studies. His old ambition for knowl- 
edge has sharpened with the years, and his arrangements 
are all made to commence a collegiate course at Coves- 
ville. Only a few days now until the September term 
opens. 

Old Grandfather Pembrooke is still alive, and these 
last years have been happy, tranquil ones for him. Kit- 
tie and ’Rilla are still with him, while Richard is looked 
to as general manager and a foster father to them all. 
He has developed into all his reformation promised. 

Little Pen, as we, in other days were wont to call 
him, is now a grown-up young gentleman, but very 
spare and delicate. His health has been very poor, so 
much so that he gave up his school life some two years 
prior to the time at which we write. His health is greatly 
improved, now, however, and he is to commence his col- 
legiate course, also, at Covesville, with the opening of 
the September term. 


320 


AT CHALMER UNIVERSITY. 


Handsome Emily Willets alone is changed. Never 
more will she look upon the happy faces of her many 
friends. The vision that Harry Baine had, years ago 
when he was convalescent at Cinapolis, after he had 
been nursed back to life by her watchful, loving care, 
seems to have been prophetic of succeeding events. 
Then he fancied he saw the smooth waters of content- 
ment ripple and break, and the surging waves arm them- 
selves with white mariner caps of trouble, as they beat 
high in their mad lashings against the beach, while their 
dirge-like lament was, 

“ Bro-ken wa-ves, bro-ken wa-ves,” 

Through the rising mist he saw a tiny bark, and Emily's 
sweet face ; and faintly he heard her chanting voice as 
it blended with and became a part of the ocean’s lament : 

“ Bro-ken wa-ves, bro-ken wa-ves !” 

She was brought down with a long spell of sickness 
soon after returning home to Cinapolis from Grand- 
father Pembrooke’s. For days her life trembled on the 
scales of uncertainty, but at last the secret hand was 
stretched forth, the magic spring of life was touched, 
and the low ebbing of life regained its natural ebb and 
flow. 

When, however, her convalescent days came on, her 
eyesight began failing her, and finally the lamp of light 
faded from out her beautiful eyes forever, and she was 
left hopelessly blind. 

Harry visited her twice every year, and was very 
gentle and kind to poor, unfortunate Emily. 

Let us now hie aw 7 ay to Covesville, for it is the open- 
ing day of the fall term of school. 

Covesville is quite an educational country town, some 
five miles away from any railway. It is a very old and 
quiet place, and has beautiful streets, with rows of large 
trees planted along on either side. Planted years and 
years ago by hands that long ere this have ceased 


AT CHALMER UNIVERSITY. 


321 


to do, except as “ the deeds of good men live after 
them.” 

Chalmer University is the pride of the good people 
of Covesville. It is a large building, several stories 
high, built of brick and stone. On one side an ivy vine 
had climbed up and up, until it now reached the very 
gable, and when Pen saw this he thought how emble- 
matic this twining ivy is of the student’s life. At first, 
no doubt, it was but a tiny plant, but year by year it had 
grown stronger and stronger, and with its twining, 
clinging tendrils reached up higher and higher, until at 
last the last round in the ladder had been reached. So, 
also, with the student. Little by little he adds to his 
store of knowledge, and step by step he advances. 

A wide campus ground surrounds the college build- 
ing, thickly set with beautiful trees, and the turfy lawn 
was kept closely mown. Two large dormitories stood 
not far away to the east of the college, while just to the 
west was located the ladies’ boarding hall, presided over 
by an acquaintance of ours, Mrs. Bethel, Pen’s aunt. 
Her two little boys have grown tall with the years, and 
are now preparing for college. 

Lin and Pen came face to face on the campus grounds, 
a little while before the last bell rang. 

Six years ago they parted when Pen took the stage 
coach to go to McGuffin’s farm, since which time they 
have never met. Indeed, during all these years, Lin 
Brinkerhoff had heard nothing of his old playmate ex- 
cept that he had mysteriously disappeared from the Mc- 
Guffin farm. 

Pen passed on, busily thinking that here, at this very 
college, his father long years ago had commenced his 
college days. 

Lin had changed wonderfully, and it was no wonder 
Pen did not recognize him. Then he was but a boy. 
To-day he was a robust, broad-shouldered man in stat- 
ure, and for five years had filled a man’s position. Pen, 
however, wore the same thoughtful face that he did when 
a child. That same far-away look that Lin had so often 
noticed in childhood days, was still there. The same 
broad, full forehead and tapering chin, the same head, 
14 * 


322 


AT CHALMER UNIVERSITY. 


with massive wavy hair. There could be no mistake— 
it must be Pen Pembrooke, thought Lin. True he was 
small of stature for his years, but that very fact made the 
slowly retreating figure look more like his old play- 
fellow. 

“ Hello !” said Lin, turning and following after him. 

Pen faced about, and as he did so, Lin, feeling sure 
now that it was Pen, said, “ If I mistake not, sir, I am 
addressing Mr. Pembrooke ?” 

“That is my name,” replied Pen, “but really, sir, you 
have the advantage of me.” 

“Why, Pen,” said Lin, beamingly, “don’t you re- 
member your old playfellow, Lin Brinkerhoff ?” 

“ No ?” said Pen, interrogatively, “I mean I do re- 
member him, but surely, sir ” 

“Give us your hand,” interrupted Lin. “Brinker- 
hoff is my name, and no mistake.” 

The two shook hands warmly, and were mutually 
pleased at this unexpected meeting. They strolled about 
the camp grounds until the opening exercises com- 
menced. They were, at their request, assigned rooms 
together, and as the days of early college life rolled by, 
they became acquainted again, each with the other, as he 
w r as now. 

The boys of six years ago had silently disappeared, 
and with these intervening years blended into early 
manhood. 

Lin Brinkerhoff was the same ambitious, shrewd, accu- 
mulating sort of a young man that he was as a boy, when 
he, not only for pastime but also for profit, traded slate 
pencils and other school boy accouterments, also traded 
jack knives, “ sight unseen, whole handle, whole blade, 
or no trade.” 

In the early part of our story we have seen how he 
viewed life ; he, believing that to be happy one must 
possess the comforts of high life, and that such comforts 
•were a purchasable commodity. Hence, to be happy, 
one must possess wealth. To be sure, those early ten- 
dencies were somewhat veiled over now with the subtle 
mask that is universally woven with the rolling on of 
years. He had developed into a fine-looking, broad- 


AT CHALMER UNIVERSITY. 


323 


shouldered, robust young gentleman, with a reckless 
daring way about him, a way that Pen could not exactly 
understand. 

Both Pen and Lin entered upon a classical course of 
study. Their class was a large one, as freshmen classes 
usually are, composed of young ladies and gentlemen 
from many different states. 

A considerable time elapsed before Pen, in his retir- 
ing, silent way, had formed the acquaintance of a half a 
dozen of his classmates. 

Lin, however, in his half-reckless, daring way seemed 
to possess a fascinating charm that drew all the class to 
him, and .very soon he was on the most friendly terms 
with every member of it. One reason of this, perhaps, 
was that he was very soon acknowledged to be the most 
apt student in the entire freshmen class. 

He stood at the head, so to speak, and was soon a 
favorite among the professors, as well as among his asso- 
ciates. Next to him came Pen, who seemed to live with 
himself and his books, with no desire to know others or 
by others be known. 

One evening, in the early days of October, Lin re- 
turned to his room, and found Pen had finished his les- 
sons, and was intently reading his Bible. 

“ Well, my dear fellow,” said Lin, “what sublime 
work are you so intently poring over now ?” 

“It is the Bible,” answered Pen, without looking up. 

“ The Bible,” repeated Lin, “ and pray, sir, is that 
the book you have been so much engaged on night after 
night ?” 

“I usually read a chapter or two every night,” ans- 
wered Pen. 

“ And I presume,” said Lin, “ also engage in a season 
of prayer before retiring. Have a little camp meeting 
all by yourself ?” A half scornful smile curled his lip as 
he made this observation. 

“ I certainly do say my prayers every evening,” re- 
plied Pen, “ and I hope you do the same.” 

“ My dear friend,” said Lin, with a scoffing laugh, 
“ I do not. I have read, sir, the treasured up thoughts 
of such philosophers as Voltaire, Paine and others, and 


324 


AT CIIALMER UNIVERSITY. 


with all due deference to whatever belief you may have 
in the Bible, I am not prepared to accept its teachings/’ 

Pen looked silently at his companion for a moment, 
and strange shadows flitted over his face. Lin’s words 
were a revelation that he was not prepared for, and it 
pained him keenly to think that the playmate of his 
youth, and classmate in college, could give utterance to 
such words. 

At last, he said, “ I am very sorry, Lin, to hear you 
make such a confession.” 

“Did you ever read,” asked Lin, “ Tom Paine’s ‘ Age 
of Reason ?’ ” 

“ I never did,” Pen replied. 

“ Well, you shall read it. I have it in my trunk, and 
after you have finished it, I imagine your faith in the 
divinity of the Bible will waver a little, and strange 
doubts will, at least, creep into your mind about the plan 
of redemption as taught by the New Testament.” 

“Then,” said Pen, firmly, “I will never read it. I 
do not wish to live to see the day that doubt comes 
to me regarding the plan of salvation as taught by 
Christ. Just imagine,” said Pen, earnestly, “what 
would a sin-cursed and fallen world do without a 
Saviour ?” 

“ But, why,” asked Lin, “why curse a world of crea- 
tures in order to necessitate a Saviour?” 

Pen looked astonished and deeply grieved at his com- 
panion. A half frightened expression fell over his 
countenance, .and then he slowly said : 

“You talk like an infidel, but I pray God you are 
not.” 

“ I can discover,” replied Lin, “ no separate existence 
of a soul in the mechanism of the body. Modern phil- 
osophy, my dear fellow, modern philosophy has long 
ago routed from its stronghold the theology of our great 
grandsires, which was based wholly on the divinity of 
the Bible.” 

“ And I,” said Pen, “ strictly adhere to the faith of 
our grandfathers, and firmly believe the teachings of this 
Holy Book. It is very painful to me to hear you talk 
as you do, Lin, it is so, and I hope the time will come 



AT CHALMER UNIVERSITY. 


3 £5 


when you will look upon the Bible as a divine book and 
regard all philosophy, to the contrary, as blasted and 
unwholesome fruit, that generates only from darkly be- 
wildered minds.” 

“ If it is a painful subject, Pen, we will drop it and 
talk of other things. By the way, I want to tell you 
what a young lady of our class said to me this evening 
about you.” 

“About me?” said Pen; “I can’t imagine who it 
could be, for I am not acquainted with any of 
them.” 

“ Miss Baine,” said Lin, eyeing Pen very closely, as 
he mentioned the young lady’s name. 

41 Miss P~* " Really, I did not know there was a 

young lady in the class by that name ; but the name is 
familiar to me. A good many years ago I met a little 
girl by the name of Lillie Baine. I presume by this 
time she is quite a young lady. What remark did she 
make ?” 

“ Oh, she was wondering,” replied Lin, “ if you were 
the same person, who, a number of years ago, rode in 
the stage coach with her mother and herself.” 

Pen came to his feet at once at this announcement, 
and declared that he was indeed that self same individual, 
and that the identical Bible he held in his hand was a 
present from her. 

“ Lin’s face, for some cause, clouded at once, but Pen 
was wholly unconscious of it, and went on talking in 
higher spirits than Lin had ever witnessed in him since 
they commenced school. The more Pen talked about 
Lillie Baine, declaring that he was highly pleased to 
learn that she was their classmate, and that he must see 
her on the morrow and have a talk with her, the darker 
grew the shadow on Lin’s face. 

At last he brightened up, and, in a confidential way, 
said : 

44 I will tell you, Pen, frankly, that I think consider- 
able of Miss Baine— in fact, she is my preference among 
them all. I was a little nettled this evening, however, 
when she made another remark about you that, as yet, I 
haven’t told but which I feel that I ought to men- 


326 


AT CHALMER UNIVERSITY. 


tion, as we have always been — except during- the years 
of our separation — like brothers. It was this : She ob- 
served while we were outwalking together that you had 
not developed into a very fine specimen of manhood, 
and she hoped you would not bore her by talking about 
the trifling present she once made you, and intimated 
that if she had it to do over again she would do other- 
wise. It nettled me to hear her talk so about you, and I 
said to her that I did not like to hear such remarks about 
my room-mate, especially as he and I spent our boyhood 
days together. Her only reply was that she hoped I 
would tell you ; and she talked on so pleasantly, in that 
winning way she has, that I was soon over my half 
angriness, and promised to go walking again to-morrow 
evening.” 

“ How dare she go out walking, or you either, Lin, 
when there is an order against strolling about ?” 

“Why, we slip away and meet at the lower part of 
the campus grounds, and neither the matron of the 
ladies’ boarding hall nor the professors are any the 
wiser.” 

“ I would not,” said Pen, “violate the rules of the 
school if I were you, and I am absolutely astonished to 
learn that Lillie Baine or any other young lady would 
consent to such acts of disobedience. I must say her 
observations regarding myself are not appreciated. 
However, I will not send back this Bible to her, but 
keep it in memory of the little, golden-haired girl who 
gave it to me, but she, it seems, is no more. She has 
grown away from her former modest self, and become a 
trifling pupil of a wayward, fashionable world. No, I 
will not bore her with my company even, let alone talk 
of this worthy gift that for so many lonely years has 
been my solace. As to the giver, I wish to remember 
her as she was then, and do not care to know m} r golden- 
haired friend as the world has changed and fashioned 
her.” 

“ There goes the bell,” said Lin, hiding his face by 
looking out of the window. 

“Yes,” said Pen, rising to his feet, “and it says we 
must retire, so good night to you.” 


AT CHALMER UNIVERSITY. 


327 


“ Good night,” Lin responded, and at once retired to 
his own room* 

When Pen reached his room, he bowed down and 
silently prayed to his God for fallen humanity, and in- 
voked his blessing on the companion of his youth. 

Let us cross over and enter the room of Lin Brinker- 
hofif, and see the contrast between the one who has un- 
bounded faith in God’s holy word, and one who renoun- 
ces his teachings as a myth. 

On retiring to his room, Lin seated himself by his 
window and gazed out into the darkness below, and up 
at the twinkling stars, and had his thoughts been framed 
into words they would have said, “ Ah, Lin; you made a 
bold move to-night, but I guess it is all safe, — he will 
never bother you, go on and win her if possible. Pier 
old father, Stephen Baine, claims to have lost fourteen 
thonsand dollars, but it did not seem to hurt him. He 
is what I call financially solid. Money, money, money, 
aye, and gold. 


‘Gold, many hunted, sweat and bled for gold : 
Waked all the night and labored all the day, 
And what is this allurement, dost thou ask ?’ 




If I had a God I would ask Him for gold, and would 
also ask Him to forgive me for those 4 whole cloth * 
falsehoods I filled poor Pen up with so easily, I meant 
all right. I meant that I would like to have her slip 
away from that old hawkeyed Mrs. Bethel, and go prom- 
enading with me, and as to what I told him she said, 
why, all is fair, they say, in love and war, and I, for one, 
feel like it was a case with me. Win her I must and 
will. Pen is terribly in earnest in believing the Bible, 
and if I am a disbeliever I will say that he shows good 
sense in not reading the unsettling philosophies. ‘ Where 
ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to be wise/ is an especially 
true saying in theological matters. Philosophy estab- 
lishes doubt, and puts you far out at sea without giving 
you compass or guide of any kind, and tells you there 
is not a safe harbor on the entire coast line, that divides 
the known from the great unknown. I do wonder what 
life is, any way ? From whence did man come and 


328 


AT CEALMER UNIVERSITY. 


whither is he going ? Is there any difference between 
my mind and my body ? If my mind is the seat of 
reason, and could not exist but for the body to encase 
it, while in turn the body must have a spirit to animate 
it, are they not one and the same ? Or, if they are not 
the same, is not the one necessary to the very existence 
of the other, and do not both perish together ?” Thus, 
long into the night he sat and thought of these trying, 
“ dread questions,” which those who are without the fold 
of Christ are continually beset with. 

Lin’s whole life helped to confirm his belief in his 
own mastership, and renounced any belief in a Creator 
or Maker. His sins and shortcomings, secret dealings 
with McGuffin, etc., had never been visited upon iiis 
head. No, but day by day his pathway became more 
plain, and the fragrant flowers thicker by the wayside, 
until now he was in college and an own classmate of 
one young in years, yet divinely handsome and perfect 
in his eyes. “ Ah,' Lillie Baine, Lillie Baine,” — were 
the words that trembled on his lips when he arose from 
his seat by the window, and sought his couch. 

Never did he once think that he had done Lillie Baine 
an injury by the malicious and selfish falsehoods he had 
told Pen. Ah ! There are daggers unsheathed from their 
scabbards and dyed in innocent men’s blood all over our 
land, which cause wailing and sorrow enough, without 
such meddling gossip as Lin had - been guilty of. It 
poisons the happiness of the one gossiped about, and 
destroys faith in him who hears it. 

The gory dagger of the assassin can not more effect- 
ually accomplish dire ruin. The whispered detraction 
about he or she who has thus been smirched by the lying 
tongue of gossip, is like the ceaseless eating of a cancer. 
The law of the land throws the judicial cloak and mantle 
of armor around the life of its subjects, and he that 
spills the heart’s blood of his fellow men may be brought 
to justice, but there is no redress from the wounds in- 
flicted on the innocent by the unscrupulous assassins of 
character that infest society in all forms and behind all 
sorts of masks. The stability of friendship, pure and 
true, is the only anchor. 


A PICNIC. 


329 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

A PICNIC IN THE WOODS. 

O N a beautiful Saturday morning in late October, 
the freshmen class of Chalmer University par- 
took of an early breakfast, for a picnic in the 
wood, a few miles away, had been promised them. 

Heavily laden lunch baskets were provided, and 
seemed, together with the youug ladies of the party, to 
be Mrs. Bethel’s special charge. In addition to this 
watchful matron, one of the professors was to accom- 
pany them. 

At an early hour the carriages came around, and had 
not long to wait, for all were in readiness. An hour’s 
ride brought them to a pleasant wild-wood, where stately 
giant forest trees were plentiful on the margin of a clear 
and crystal lake. The brown leaves were falling in 
showers at every little gust of wind that played with the 
tree tops. 

Some of the brown and deadened leaves would shoot 
down swiftly from over-hanging branches to the smooth 
surface of the water below, as if their last desire on earth 
was to join company with the pebbly rocks that lay at the 
bottom of the lake, so plainly visible down in the clear 
water, while other leaves dropped listlessly down, turning 
over and over in their fluttering, downward flight, as if 
they were loath to leave the parent home where they had 
budded into life. 

Pen and Lin helped to make up this happy party 
which came for a good romp in the woods. The ferns 
were plentiful, and many of them were gathered. The 
professor said they were fine botanical specimens, but it 
is doubtful if his class viewed anything that day with bo- 
tanical eyes. Three row-boats had been brought along, 
and at once launched by the bravest of the young gen- 
tlemen. The old gray-haired professor said that every 
freshman class of Chalmers University, for twenty years 
past, had had an October holiday. 

“ If that is the case, Professor,” said Lillie Baine, — 


830 


A PICNIC. 


whose handsome face and gentle ways had made her 
quite a favorite, — “ this holiday is not a special privilege, 
but ours by right of custom.” 

“Do you think, Miss Lillie,” said the professor, 
“ that a custom right is a good title ?” 

“ I heard you say, professor,” replied Lillie, “ in your 
recitation room the other day, that custom made law, and 
if that is true, a right by reason of custom is just about 
as good a title as a lawful title.” 

All the young ladies joined in a hearty laugh, declar- 
ing that Lillie had vanquished the professor, while he 
himself good naturedly said “ he guessed she had.” 

Lin Brinkerhoft had .determined to make an “ im- 
pression,” as he termed it, before this holiday drew to a 
close, and the only obstacle he feared was Penfield Pem- 
brooke. Ever since that night they had their conver- 
sation about religious matters and Lillie Baine, he had 
looked on Pen in the light of a rival. Not that he had 
any reason to, only a vague apprehension. 

His scruples would not stand in his way, if an oppor- 
tunity came to build his point of eminence on Pen’s 
downfall, let the wreck come in any shape it might. 
Lin’s success in life had been by taking “ time by the 
forelock,” and never “ sleeping away his rights.” He 
had had several very pleasant conversations with Lillie 
Baine, while escorting her to chapel service, and she had 
mentioned the fact that once upon a time she met Pen- 
field Pembrooke in a stage coach, and wondered why he 
did not try to renew the acquaintance. 

Lin promptly told her in confidence that Pen had 
said to him that “ he sincerely hoped Miss Lillie Baine 
would not try to claim an acquaintanceship with him, 
because he happened to meet her once when she was a 
little, silly girl.” Lin added that he did not know what 
young Pembrooke meant by it, but those were his exact 
words. “ And he also said,” continued Lin, “ that he 
didn’t care to mix with any of the young ladies.” 

Lillie wondered if aristocratic Mr. Pembrooke didn’t 
have his girl already picked out before he came to col- 
lege, and, perhaps, promised her he wouldn’t even look 
at anybody else. 


A PICNIC. 


331 


Lin, in reply to this, said, “If Miss Baine would 
never mention it, he would confess that such was the 
case, for Pen had told him as much.” 

Thus, by fraud and deceitfulness, Lin was planting 
sharp thorns in unsuspecting Pen’s pathway. He also 
persuaded Lillie to read “ Age of Reason,” which she 
had completed only a few days before this holiday. 

Soon after reaching the grounds, Pen had wandered 
away into the woods alone. There was a real charm about 
this hazy Indian summer sort of day, roaming through 
the thick carpet of dry leaves, and watching others 
twirling over and over in their downward flight. There 
was a melancholy sadness about it, too, so much like his 
own life had been. It seemed to strengthen him, to thus 
commune with his own thoughts, surrounded by such 
sympathizing companions as the withered and browned 
leaves and the tall trees, many of them now naked and 
seemingly so lonely. 

He remembered that when a mere child, at his old 
Hampton home, he used to shed bitter tears in summer 
time at the very thought of the beautiful, growing herb- 
age and shady trees so soon being robbed of their green 
verdure and coats of mantling leaves, but many bitter 
experiences had taught him since then that all vegetable 
and animal life were budded and born to die, and as life 
was uncertain, so also was the inconsistency and way- 
wardness of the children of men, an unexplained mystery. 
He wondered if the dying leaves and verdure were not 
a sort of a forewarning to the tall oaks that they, too, 
must sooner or later succumb to the hand of time. 

The barking squirrels, gathering the ripened nuts for 
winter store, reminded him that winter was coming 
on, “And to me,” said he, “ will at last come a winter, 
but whenever it comes I will try and be ready.” How 
appropriate to such thoughts are Pollock’s words : 

“ And when at last poor man subdued, 

Lies down to death resigned ; 

May he not still be happier far 
Than those he leaves behind ?” 

When Pen returned to the bank of the lake where 
the baskets had been left, he found only the professor 


332 


A PICNIC. 


and Mrs. Bethel. They were comfortably seated on 
camp chairs, and Mrs. Bethel greeted Pen with a smile 
and observed, when he came up, that it was almost lunch 
time and that soon they would have to gather in the 
young ladies and gentlemen. 

Pen, seeing a boat moored close by, said he would 
take a row before dinner. 

“ Do you understand rowing, Mr. Pembrooke ?” asked 
the professor. 

“ Oh yes, sir, quite well,” answered Pen, “at the 
academy where I attended school three years we used to 
go rowing quite often.” 

He seated himself in the boat, and adjusted the small 
sail as it should be, then, picking up his oars, shot 
with skilled speed out on the bosom of the smooth 
waters. 

“Did you know, professor, that Mr. Pembrooke is a 
nephew of mine ?” 

“ I did not, Mrs. Bethel,” the dignified professor re- 
plied. 

“ Yes,” said the matron, “ his mother and I were sis- 
ters.” 

While the professor and Mrs. Bethel chatted pleas- 
antly on, and even while Pen had been taking his lonely 
yet enjoyable stroll through the forest, Lin was enjoy- 
ing himself to the utmost in Lillie Baine’s company. 

All the young ladies and gentlemen of the party, ex- 
cepting Pen, had wandered away and seemingly lost 
themselves among the steep banks and deep dells in 
search of ferns and moss. 

Lin succeeded in monopolizing Lillie’s company en- 
tirely, and the two strolled on, crossing deep ravines 
and climbing abrupt banks, until at last they came to a 
large, flat-surfaced rock that just lifted itself above the 
bank in which it was imbedded high enough to afford a 
very pleasant seat, where Lin proposed that they stop 
and rest. 

As they seated themselves, Lin said that he was en- 
joying himself immensely. 

“ I guess we all are,” replied Lillie. 

“ But then,” said Lin, “ not like I am.” 

“I wonder now, Mr. Brinkerhoff,” said Lillie, look- 


A PICNIC. 


333 


ing merrily at him with laughing eyes, “in what waj 
you are particularly blest more than the rest of us ?” 

“ Why, in having you all to myself, for a little 
while, at least,” replied Lin, blushing to the very 
roots of his hair at the unnatural sound of his own 
voice. 

“ I never heard any one talk like you do,” said Lillie, 
as she went on arranging some ferns that lay in her lap. 
“ I never heard any one talk sentimental, but I always 
thought that is about the way it would sound.” As she 
said this she actually managed to suppress her mirth and 
sigh a regular regulation sigh. 

Lin took heart at once, and observed that not many 
young ladies, in fact, none that he was acquainted with, 
possessed the soul that Miss Baine did. 

“Oh! I don’t think I am past praying for,”, she 
replied. 

“No, and never will be,” said Lin, earnestly. 

“ Not until,” said Lillie, quickly, “ I either live to be 
a very old, old maid, my face terribly wrinkled all over, 
oh, just horrid! or marry an over gallant, compli- 
mentary sort of a man, and he turns out, as they usually 
do, to be an unbearable, selfish old grumbler.” 

Lin was silent for a moment, wondering, no doubt, 
if she “had any reference to allusions,” as the Inimitable 
Willets would say. But “love is blind,” and so was 
infatuated Lin. He finally subdued his thoughts enough 
to say he sincerely hoped she would be blessed with an 
entirely different sort of a husband, “ for you are indeed 
worthy of the best in the land.” 

“It is very kind, Mr. Brinkerhoff, for you to say 
so,” replied Lillie, as sober as a little Puritan. 
“One thing I feel certain of, and that is, when I do 
meet my fate, I will know him the very first time we 
meet.” 

“Perhaps,” said Lin, in a very tender voice, “you 
have already met him since you came to Covesville. 
They say the birds follow the course of the sun ; so, 
also, may he follow close beside you for a great many 
years, before you discover that he indeed is your true 


334 


A PICNIC. 


“I hope I haven’t met him,” said Lillie, teasingly, 
while she kept her talking eyes upon a bunch of moss 
that lay in her lap. 

“You hope not ?” interrogatively questioned Lin. 

“ Yes, I hope not, for you know,” said Lillie, look- 
ing innocently up at him, “I am quite sure no one I 
ever met, would make anything like the best in the 
land, and that is the kind you were good enough tc 
wish I might get ; and 1 have made up my mind that my 
knight must be a military man, with a blue suit and 
brass buttons.” 

Lin colored perceptibly at this speech of his fair 
companion and wondered to himself what made Lillie 
so awfully dull. “ Can’t she see that I am trying to talk 
for myself, the stupid little beauty ?” 

•‘Pardon me, Miss Baine,” he said, looking squarely 
at her, “if I am over frank, but for some unaccountable 
reason, I feel 1 must say just whatever my impulses dic- 
tate to-day. I do not know why it is, but it seems to 
me that I have known you from your childhood days, 
instead of only since school commenced.” 

“Well, now, isn’t it strange,” said Lillie, “that you 
should have such queer feelings as that? Are you 
sure you are quite well to-day ? You look a little flush- 
ed, as if you might be feverish. Wouldn’t it be too bad 
if you should be taken down with a long spell of sick- 
ness, and your hair all come out? But maybe it would 
come in nice and wavy, like Mr. Pembrooke's.” 

Lin was almost exasperated at this cool reception of 
his feverish ardor, and before he could think what he 
ought to say, Lillie commenced again : 

“If you should be taken down sick, Mr. Brinkerhoff, 
that aristocratic Mr. Pembrooke would be at the head of 
our class, and that would make him feel terribly stuck 
up.” 

“ Miss Baine,” said Lin, with great earnestness, “ we 
are friends, are we not, and can be very confiden- 
tial ?” " 

“ Friends !” said Lillie with an astonished look ? “ No, 
indeed. Mamma says nobody can be friends until they 
have known each other ever so long, a year or two, any- 


A PICNIC. 


335 


way. We are classmates and acquaintances, but not 
friends yet, Mr. Brinkerhoff.” 

Lin thought this was rather bard luck, but yet there 
was something in her musical voice which said to him, 
“ Hope on, hope on ; don’t be too easily discour- 
aged/’ 

“ I thought,” he went on, in half-soliloquy, “ that we 
were friends.” 

“ No,” replied Lillie, “ not friends yet, but I hope we 
will be by the time we graduate. Really, though, Mr. 
Brinkerhoff, I almost forgot we were not friends. I 
think the reason I forgot was because you talked so 
strangely to me, but you must be more prudent in the 
future.” 

“ I said nothing,” remonstrated Lin, “that even ac- 
quaintances might not with propriety say to one another. 
Do you think I did ?” 

“ I don’t know,” said Lillie, sighing so sweetly that 
Lin was almost desperate, “ I will tell the matron, Mrs. 
Bethel, when we go back to lunch, and ask her what she 
thinks of it.” 

“ Oh, hang Mrs. Bethel !” said Lin, angrily. 

“ Why, Mr. Brinkerhoff.” said Lillie, looking in open- 
eyed astonishment at him, “ what in the world would 
you hang her for ?” 

Lin was unable to answer for a moment, and turned 
away his head. He was heartily ashamed of himself for 
letting his anger get away with him. Lillie, the mis- 
chievious elf, had no intention of telling the matron, 
and Lin, had he been less blind, would have known it. 
She, like many another young lady in early life heartily 
enjoyed what school girls call “teasing.” Her quick, 
perceptive faculties, had weeks before told her of Lin’s 
schooi-boy infatuation, and in a certain way she exulted 
in the power she had over him. A better or more 
noble-hearted young lady could not be found anywhere, 
and her conscience began to jerk and twinge a little, 
telling her that she had gone far enough. 

Lin finally recovered himself sufficiently to say that 
“he was just in fun and that he would not for any con- 
sideration have the matron hung, but,” he continued, 


336 


A PICNIC 


“ in order that you may know just how I do feel, I will 
follow up my frank form of speech, and teil you — ” 

“ Oh ! There come the girls,” exclaimed Lillie, 
hastily rising, “and they are calling us to come to 
lunch.” 

On their way back to the lake bank, where the lunch 
baskets were left, Lin said he would consider it a special 
favor if Miss Baine would forego mentioning his re- 
marks to Mrs. Bethel. 

“ Will you promise never to talk that way again?” 
said sedate Lillie. 

“Never,” said Lin, “never again.” 

“ Because, Mr. Brinherhoff,” she went on in the de- 
mure tones of a little Quakeress, “it makes me feel so 
awfully queer.” 

This being settled between them, Lin felt in better 
spirits, and in that confidential way of his that was so 
common with him he said, “ I will tell you a good joke, 
Miss Baine, that could be played on my room-mate, Mr. 
Pembrooke.” 

“ How ?” asked Lillie. 

“You see,” replied Lin, “ he is inclined to be very 
religious, and if we could just get the professor to ask 
him to return thanks when we seat ourselves at lunch, 
it would be the event of the day.” 

“ Do you think,” asked Lillie, looking straight into 
Lin’s face, “that he would return thanks if the profes- 
sor should ask him to ?” 

“Oh, yes, that he would, and with as much dignity 
as you ever saw the ceremony performed.’^ 

Lillie turned away her head a little, pained to think 
that Mr. Brinkerhoff could be so hard on any one. In 
truth, she thought quite well of him, notwithstanding 
she had just teased him wretchedly, but she revolted at 
the idea of becoming a party to such a scheme as Lin 
had proposed, and without thinking why she made such 
a reply, said: “No, I do not think I would want any 
such a joke as that played on Mr. Pembrooke. He is 
aristocratic, I know, but then — I rather like him, for all 
that.” 

She watched Lin’s face as the color came and went, 


A PICNIC. 


337 


and then she knew his weak point. Lin Brinkerhoff 
was jealous of Mr. Pernhrooke. “ It is capital,”' she said 
to herself. “ Now I do know how to tease him to my 
heart’s content.” 

Lin was prevented from making her any reply, as 
others joined them just then, so he contented himself by 
biting his lips until the blood almost came. 

Mrs. Bethel declared, as they gathered around the 
cloth, that their boisterous talking and laughing sound- 
ed more like a lot of wild children, than like young ladies 
and gentleman from Chalmer University. 

u Where is Mr. Pembrooke ?” asked Lillie, glancing 
around. 

“ He is out boating/’ replied the professor, “ I waved 
my handkerchief to him, and I think he will soon be here.” 

“ What if he was to get drowned?” said one of the 
young ladies. 

Lillie shot a quick glance at Lin, and she saw, or 
thought she did, at least, a triumphant gleam mask itself 
about his face, and then quickly disappear as if it had 
never been. 

The professor observed that Mr. Pembrooke was a 
very skillful oarsman, and he did not think there was 
any danger. 

Lillie quickly rose, to her feet, and after asking the 
matron to excuse her, withdrew. She tripped lightly 
down toward the lake, where she could see out over the 
waters, and discovered Pen, with slow and easy strokes, 
sending the skiff like a winged bird over the smooth 
surface shoreward. “ How I would like,” thought she, 
“ to go out riding with such a skillful oarsman. I won- 
der if he would take me? I will just ask him, that is 
what I will do. I don’t care if he has got the future 
Mrs. Pembrooke already picked out.” In the meantime 
Pen effected a landing and sprang lightly up the beach 
of grass-covered earth, and was face to face with Lillie 
before he saw her. His first impulse was to greet her as 
he would a sister, for in truth, as she stood there before 
him, she looked so like her old self that day in the stage 
coach. But judgment soon triumphed over impulse, and 
he bowed stiffly. 

15 


338 


A PICNIC. 


“Mr. Pembrooke,” said Lillie, in her sweetest voice, 
“ won’t you recognize an old acquaintance ?” 

“ This is Miss Baine, I believe,” said Pen taking her 
extended hand in his. 

“ Yes, sir,” said Lillie, “ and I don’t think we ought 
to be quite so reserved, while we are classmates, any- 
way.” 

“ Perhaps not,” said Pen, and as they both turned to 
join the remainder of the party he thought to himself, 
“ Surely she is a deceitful fraud to talk about me behind 
my back as she did and then purr around in this way.” 

“ Mr. Pembrooke, I wish to ask a favor of you.” 

“ Well,” said Pen. 

“ I want you,” said Lillie, “ to take me boat riding 
after dinner, won’t you, please?” 

“Certainly, Miss Baine, if you wish it.” 

“Now,” said Lillie, determined to break the crust of 
dignified reserve which surrounded her classmate, 
“ don’t say a word to any of the rest of them that we are 
going, or they will want to go along, and I am afraid to 
go if there is anybody but just you and I in the boat.” 

Pen looked furtively at her, but could not, from any 
expression her face wore, understand what had come 
over this fashionable young lady. They soon found 
places at the cloth, and partook of a hearty dinner. 
Every young lady and gentleman had something to say 
to him, and before he had finished his lunch he felt bet- 
ter acquainted with his classmates than he supposed he 
would be at the end of the year. 

After dinner they gathered around the professor, ex- 
hibiting their fern specimens and bunches of moss. 

Lillie had kept an eye on Master Lin, and was more 
than satisfied at that gentleman’s discomfiture, and the 
more he scowled the more she had to say to Mr. Pem- 
brooke. 

Lillie came to Pen after the professor was through 
making his comments, and said, softly, “ Come on, now, 
Mr. Pembrooke, you know what you promised me.” 

Pen turned and they walked down to where the boat 
was moored, and soon they were speeding away on the 
waters. Those on shore discovered them presently, and 


A PICXIC. 


339 


the young ladies waved their handkerchiefs and the 
young gentlemen their caps, all excepting one, Lin 
Brinkerhoff — he did not wave his hat nor join in a 
single huzza. 

“ Oil ! isn’t this lovely, Mr. Pembrooke,” said Lillie, 
looking up at him with her most bewitching smile. 

‘‘I think,” replied Pen, “that boating is always 
pleasant.” 

Lillie gazed far away over the smooth waters, and Pen 
busied himself adjusting the sail and pulling at the oars. 

This October Saturday was a regular Indian summer 
day. A hazy mist threw its veiblike sheen over the sun, 
and dimmed its dazzling brightness. 

“ How strange the sun looks,” observed Lillie. 

Pen rested his oars, and said it looked like a big red 
wheel in the sky— looked as if the hazy smoke might be 
a cloud of vapor rising from an ocean of blood. 

“Oh, what a comparison, Mr. Pembrooke ! By-the- 
way, do you not think this is far more pleasant than 
riding in a stage-coach ?” 

Pen turned and looked quickly at his fair companion 
and after a moment said, “The most pleasant ride I ever 
had, at least the one I think of oftenest, Miss Baine, w r as 
in an old lumbering stage-coach. 

“ Do you refer to the time you rode a few miles 
with mamma and me ?” she asked, seemingly with great 
candor. 

“ Not with you, Miss Baine, as you are now, but as 
you were then,” replied Pen, quickly. 

“ Do you think, Mr. Pembrooke, that I am so greatly 
changed since then ?” 

“ Yes,” he replied, “in many ways.” 

“ In what way am I changed, ” she asked. 

“You are taller then you were then,” he replied, 
“and, if I mistake not, have taken up with many fash- 
ionable, worldly ways. You will please excuse my frank- 
ness, Miss Baine.” 

Lillie bit her lips and her handsome eyes fairly flashed 
for a moment, but she quickly composed herself, and, al- 
though she felt his criticism keenly, determined not to 
let him see that she did. 


340 


A PICKIO. 


“ I don’t know, Mr. Pembrooke, how much I ha've 
changed, but surely it is very little compared to the 
change in yourself.” 

Lillie felt much better after she had delivered herself 
of this speech, and waited for Pen to reply, but as no re- 
ply came, after a few moments she said : “We are class- 
mates now, Mr. Pembrooke, and notwithstanding the 
change for the worse you discover in me, I think we at 
least ought to be sociable, especially to day when we 
came to the woods and this beautiful lake on purpose to 
enjoy ourselves.” Lillie was prompted to make this 
speech more perhaps to have Pen on friendly terms with 
her, so that she could more effectually worry and 
tease Lin Brinkerhoff, than from any other motive, but 
after she had said it she felt that it indeed was the true 
dictates of her womanly instincts, and notwithstanding 
Pen’s cutting criticism, she wished him for her friend. 

“ Miss Baine,” said Pen, “ no one could wish more 
ardently than myself that I could be on friendly and 
sociable terms with all my classmates, but it is such a 
hard matter for me to break down the natural barriers of 
reticence and backwardness with which I am beset that 
I no doubt appear odd at times, but I am never lonely. 
Some days the lessons are so hard that I have no spare 
time whatever. Again they are easier, and when they 
are, I read books, outside of our regular studies.” 

“There is my hand, Mr. Pembrooke,” said Lillie tri- 
umphantly, “ we will be friends to day, anyway.” 

As Pen took her hand in his he repeated, “ Yes, for to 
day.” 

Before Pen’s answer died away, Lillie commenced 
singing in a soft melodious voice — 

“ Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, 

While, proudly riding o’er the azure realm, 

In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes.” 

“ Boating, Mr. Pembrooke, always makes me feel 
happy. How does it make you feel ?” 

“ It reminds me of the journey of life,” replied Pen. 
“You see,” he went on, “we are quite a long distance 




A PICNIC. 


341 


from shore, and the breeze that is blowing constantly 
carries us noiselessly on and on, farther away. We have 
drifted out here without hardly noting our course or 
whither we were going. If. however, I draw in the sail 
here and loosen it there, our little craft turns its course 
shoreward and the eager wind kisses the sail as enthusi- 
astically as before, notwithstanding we are going almost 
squarely against it. So, Miss Baine, do months and 
years of our lives glide silently away and we can hardly 
realize that we are no longer children, but have arrived 
at mature years, and sooner or later must take our places 
on the great stage of life, and assume such responsibil- 
ities as may be our lot. Fortunes may be lost, but if the 
children of men would but pinion their sails aright they 
will be able to battle against the losing winds of adver- 
sity, as we are battling against an adverse wind now, and 
eventually change them into Winning Winds, and suc- 
cessfully moor their barks into the one great harbor of 
safety, as our little craft is mooring now.” 

“ I like to hear you talk like that, Mr. Pembrooke, 
but I doubt very much if I ever accomplish very much 
in this big world.” 

A few vigorous strokes with the oars brought them 
up to the mooring. Pen assisted Lillie ashore, and 
while he made the boat fast, she sprang gracefully up 
the mossy banks, then, turning, extended her slender 
hand to him. Although he did not need it, )^et he ac- 
cepted Lillie’s proffered aid gratefully. “ Thank you, 
that is capital,” said Pen. 

“ Is that all you would say to me,” asked Lillie, in- 
nocently, “ if I was not changed a bit since that time you 
saw me in the stage coach ?” 

Pen came back to where she stood, and taking both 
her hands in his said : “ If the little golden-tressed girl 
of long ago had not grown away from herself, and was 
here by me as you are now, I would say to her, ‘ I wish 
it could always be thus, — for me to row you over the 
stream of life and you to stand ready to greet me with 
a smile and helping hand, reaching down and helping 
me up, and up, to a better life as we journeyed on to- 
gether, with a firm and abiding faith in Him, who rules 
over all.” 


342 


THE WEDDING. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

THE INIMITABLE’S WEDDING. 

W HEN Lin Brinkerhoff went away from Hampton 
to commence his collegiate course at Chalmer 
University, the fact was at once reported to 
the Chicago attorney, Mr. Westover, who in turn report- 
ed it to Mr. Stephen Baine, who immediately wrote back 
to Lawyer Westover that his suspicions of five years 
ago were just as strong as ever. He firmly believed that 
Lin Brinkerhoff knew where the money went to, and he 
desired a detective to follow him up at once and note 
his style of living, and see if he did not have consider- 
able money for a young man of his circumstances. The 
attorney wrote at once to Burt Lester, the detective, 
who, immediately after receiving the letter, went to 
Chicago and had a long conversation with the attorney 
relative to carrying out Mr. Baine’s wish in having a 
detective look after young Brinkerhoff at Covesville. 

Burt protested, however, that it was a useless expense, 
for, said he, “ Very shortly will I be able to prove to you 
and M*. Baine that my first impression of this tedious 
case was correct. Three days ago, Mr. Willets, the man 
who has the money — I will stake my reputation as a 
detective that I am correct — left Hampton and went to 
Cinapolis. I followed, shadowing him, and learned 
facts that promise to be important keys in unraveling 
this mystery.” 

Mr. Westover was all attention, and when Burt got 
as far as the word “ mystery ” he could remain quiet no 
longer. “ Give n;e your hand, Mr. Lester,” he shouted, 
“ until I congratulate you. I have felt in my very bones 
from the first that you would run down our man, but I 
swear it has been devilish slow work. But tell me what 
clue did you catch in Cinapolis?” 

“ Why, this,” said Burt, “ Mr. Willets purchased a 
diamond ring and a very expensive set of jewelry, the 
total cost of which was nine hundred odd dollars, for 


THE WEDDING. 


343 


which he paid spot cash. I have a certificate here from 
the express agent at Cinapolis that he sent a small pack- 
age of valuables to Miss Tobias. She, by the way, is a 
lady acquaintance of mine, in fact, a cousin, her mother 
being an own sister of my father’s. Unfortunately, she 
has formed a very great attachment for this man Willets 
— I believe they are betrothed.” 

“ Is that,” said the lawyer, “the link you have discov 
ered ?” 

“It is,” replied the detective, confidently. 

“Then another failure awaits you,” said Mr. West- 
over. 

“ And pray, why ?” asked Burt. 

“Why? It is no evidence,” replied the attorney. 
“He works all the time and has no one to support but 
himself, and, no, doubt, made these purchases from his 
savings.” 

“ There you are mistaken,” said Burt. “ You don’t 
know the man. Edward Willets is like a new play put 
on the boards. He 4 must be seen to be appreciated.’ 
During all these years that I have known him, he 
has been wretchedly hard up. Pecuniary embarrass- 
ments are as natural to him as the very air he 
breathes.” 

“ What does he do with his money ?” asked Mr. 
Westover. 

“ That is the question, sir, that stumps us all,” replied 
Bart. 


“Well, I will enlighten you, then,” said the lawyer, 
while a triumphant smile played on his face. “He 
hoards it up. He knows, Mr. Lester, that he is suspected, 
and for that very reason he plays the hard-up dodge.” 

“I believe I am right, Mr. Westover,” said Burt, 
brushing his forehead as if to brush away the veil that 
shrouded the mystery. 

The next day the detective returned to Hampton, 
and Harry Baine at once upon his arrival told him how 
the Inimitable Willets had been displaying a large roll 
of bills the evening before. A few days after this, Burt 
received word from Mr. Westover that the services of a 
detective had been secured to look after Lin Brinkerhoff. 


344 


THE WEDDING. 


Harry had written to his father in the meantime that he 
guessed it was a useless expense, for he now believed it 
was Edward Willets who had the missing money. 

In reply to this Mr. Stephen Baine said if it was 
either of the suspected parties, he was satisfied it was 
young Brinkerhoff. 

Thus they waited and watched, until the winter and 
spring had passed away, and the summer vacation of 
Chalmer University came around. 

Lin during all this time, had kept Lillie Baine and 
Pen in a cloudy misunderstanding. Lin held the first 
place in his class, and at the closing exercises out-did 
even himself. Every professor in the University said he 
was certainly a brilliant young man. Then there came 
the good-by at parting, as they hurried away to their 
homes to greet dear ones there. 

Grandfather Pembrooke and his household gave Pen 
the warmest of receptions. Little Bertha was now seven 
years old, and was almost idolized by them all. 

About a week after his return home, ’Rilla came to 
him one day and gave him a square, unsealed envelope, 
and on opening it he found it to be a formal invitation 
to her wedding. She and the Inimitable Edward Wil- 
lets were to be married in about ten days from then. 

She stood by his side with one hand resting on his 
shoulder, while he opened and read it. 

“ I feel that you are my brother, Pen, and I come to 
hear what you think of my choice.” 

“ Ah, ’Rilla, if he is your choice, know now and al- 
ways that he is mine. Mr. Willets is a generous man. 
I never will forget how he gave me the last cent he had 
when I was banished from my old home.” 

“You think he is honest and upright, do you not,” 
asked ’Rilla. 

“ Indeed I do,” said Pen, promptly, “and with such a 
true, good woman as you are, my dear sister, he will be 
all you could expect in any man.” 

“ You must not compliment me, Pen,” said ’Rilla, as 
she smoothed back tile locks from his finely-chiseled 
forehead. “ I do not ask that, but tell me — will you 
think just as much of him if he is a laboring man ? You 


THE WEDDING. 


345 

know, my brother, you will be rich when you inherit 
this old home and the many broad acres that belong 
with it.” 

“ If you would be my sister, ’Rilla, do not for a mo- 
ment think that because a man is poor in wordly goods 
I would ever think the less of him for it. Great riches 
and wealth ever have, and always will, warp the hearts of 
men, until their every gesture all too plainly says, £ I am 
holier than thou.’ The laboring man, dear sister, it 
matters not what his occupation may be, is free from this 
warping influence. Riches cause men to forget their 
God in their greed and love for Mammon. A true Chris- 
tian heart not unfrequently beats under the greasy and 
shabby coat of the poor laborer who works in the shops 
and foundries all over our land, and the most poorly- 
paid brakeman on the railway train may have richer 
stores laid up in Heaven than the millionaire who owns 
a controlling interest in the road.” 

“ I am glad, Pen, you feel that way. I received a 
letter from Edward yesterday, and he says we may ex- 

I pect Uncle Tim Mannahan and Uncle George Tobias 
most any time now.” 

“What,” asked Pen, “ has been the cause of their 
staying so long* in England ?” 

“Come,” said ’Rilla, “to this rustic seat, and I will 
tell you.” They seated themselves under the shade of 
the self same tree where Pen had first met Grandfather 
Pembrooke, and then ’Rilla went on to explain how an 
Englishman by the name of Harlan Barretson, a distant 
relative of Uncle Timothy Mannahan, had gotten pos- 
session of the estate through fraud, and they had been 
having Chancery proceedings ever since he went over, 
six years ago, and had at last gotten it settled in Uncle 
Tim’s favor, and that Uncle George Tobias was an im- 
portant witness, and hence had remained. “ Now, bro- 
ther, I will tell you a secret. Uncle George Tobias and 
Mrs. Bethel have been corresponding ever since that 
time you and he accompanied her home with her two 
little boys from Cinapolis, and are to be married very 
soon after he returns. Uncle Tim has sold his estate in 
England, and proposes to purchase himself a pleasant 
15 * 


346 THE WEDDING. 

country home near the Mills, and Uncle George is to 
have his old farm where Mrs. O’Riley lived.” 

“ I am truly glad,” said Pen, “ that such kindness is 
being shown to Tobs, as your Uncle George was called 
at the McGuffin farm. He was very kind to me. Nearly 
every night he would steal up into my room, and we 
would visit far into the night, and would always read a 
chapter in this very Bible,” said Pen, drawing from 
his pocket the treasure he had carried for so many 
years. 

“ I am glad,” said ’Rilla, “that he was so kind to 
you.” 

“Yes, he was always very kind,” said Pen, “although 
he it was who put me in a box that fatal night I left the 
Phenomenal’s farm, which proved to be the coffin that 
buried me from the world during those dreary months I 
was with old Hinchey.” — 

“Perhaps,” said ’Rilla, “God in His wisdom sent 
you there to save poor Richard, for save him you 
did.” 

“ No, no, my sister,” replied Pen ; “ I may have been 
the humble instrument that our Saviour employed to 
bring about Richard’s reformation, but it was He, not 
me, who caused Richard to forsake his miserable life of 
dissipation, and turn his face Zionward. ’ 

While Pen was speaking, ’Rilla buried her face on 
his shoulder, and could not speak, so full were her 
thoughts of Richard’s reformation. 

Her thankfulness welled up in her throat when she 
thought of her now reformed brother, who once was so 
vrayward, just as she choked up that time six years ago 
when he was restored to her in the pleasant shade of the 
very tree where they were now seated. 

Finally she looked up, and through her womanly 
tears, said : 

“Ah! Pen, it was like claiming the dead back 
to life when Richard came home,” — again she buried 
her face ; she could say no more, but the glistening tears 
told the story of a glad heart which rejoices to think 
that the chains of intemperance had been broken from 
one so near to her. 





THE WEDDIHG. 



The following days glide swiftly by, and finally the 
day breaks that is to witness the marriage of Edward 
Willets and ’Rilla Tobias. The evening comes on, and 
Grandfather Pembrooke’s New England home is alive 
with the invited guests. 

Bright lights are sparkling from the windows this 
evening, throwing their long rays of light without, far 
into the darkness, and within causing a ruddy glow to 
fall cheerfully over the soft carpets and hanging pic- 
tures. 

If phantom faces of those long since in the spirit 
world flit about and peer in at the windows, no one 
within is the wiser of it. 

Edward Willets, the Inimitable, whom we have seen 
pass through so many darkening pecuniary embarrass- 
ments, aye, and witnessed him pass under the cloud of 
suspicion, which still hovers over him, is the happy 
groom. 

The train arrives at Greenwood at 8 o’clock p. m. It 
is eight o’clock now, and Richard has wheeled away to 
the station for him, and while we wait his return let us 
take a peep at the company within. 

There sits Grandfather Penbrooke in his easy chair, 
radiant and happy. His long, white beard and snowy 
hair is as spotless as the bride’s veil. By his side is Kit- 
tie, who is growing handsomer with the ripening touch 
of passing years. Ah, who is this that joins her, and 
stops to patronizingly say a word to the old man. Can 
we be mistaken ? No, indeed, it is our detective friend 
Burt Lester, who looks as radiant and happy as he 
stands there by Kittie’s side as if he had at last found the 
golden key that would unlock the mystery box where 
Uncle Stephen Baine’s money during all these years had 
been concealed. 

The rumble of carriage wheels are heard, and a 
moment more steps are coming up the walk. Then the 
door bell rings out a nervous clang, as if the one ringing 
it had an ague shake. Presently Edward Willets is an- 
nounced, and he steps into the room. His lengthy figure 
is gorgeously attired, and he wears a handsome button- 
hole bouquet. 














348 


THE WEDDING. 


“ Mr. Willets,” says Granfather Pembrooxe, extend- 
ing his hand, “ how do you do ?” 

“ Never felt better in my life, thank you,” replied the 
Inimitable, clasping the old man’s hand in a warm em- 
brace. 

“ You look flushed and warm,” said the old man. 

“There is, then,” said Willets, “a remarkable simil- 
arity between my feelings and my looks, for I cannot 
deny that I am deucedly hot.” 

“Faith, sure, and how is the groom, I don’t know,” 
said a voice at his side, and turning, Willets found him- 
self face to face with Tim Mannahan and George 
Tobias. 

“ Hit looks sort o’ natural, you know, to see you 
about,” said our old friend Tobs. 

Willets shook hands with his uncles in turn and de- 
clared it was by far the happiest hour of his life, “and 
should I make a wish, sirs,” said he, “ it would be that 
none of us ever see a less enjoyable hour than the present.” 
Pen came up just then, and after greeting Willets warmly, 
conducted him away into another room, for the hour was 
at hand when the marriage rite was to be solemnized. 
The ceremony was to take place in the large parlor. A 
little later the folding doors were thrown open and the 
guests assembled. 

’Rilla was clad in a dress of pure white. Her luxuri- 
ant hair was braided, and white roses were twined in the 
braids. On one slender finger blazed a glittering dia- 
mond ring, it being the identical one that Burt Lester 
saw Willets purchase in Cinapolis. The radiant glow 
from the chandelier fell on her brow and braids of gol- 
den hair, causing her to look very beautiful. A half 
smile wreathed her lip with a trembling joyousness, as 
she stood by the side of him in whose hands she was 
consigning her life. A casual observer might have fan- 
cied that the Inimitable wore rather a grave countenance, 
especially for one usually so glowing. The clergyman 
pronounced a few solemn words, and Edward Willets 
was the husband of the noble woman at his side. 

The half-smile on ’Rilla’s face disappeared, and she 
grew deadly pale as the irrevocable vows trembled on 


THE WEDDINGt. 


349 


her lips. She seemed to realize that her own life from 
that time on was blended with another’s and forever after 
theirs was one common destiny. 

She was now a wife. Would she be his companion ? 
How many are wives in name, but after a little while 
cease to be companions ? 

A wife should be brave and self-reliant enough to 
contend with some difficulties for herself, rather than 
seeking always to weary the husband with every little 
annoying detail of domestic trial, and yet in matters of 
serious import have a companion strong and true to 
whom they can come for sympathy and help. 

“ Affection ceases when labor becomes a drudgery.” 

The congratulations were then bestowed, and soon 
after the Inimitable and his lady gathered with the guests 
around a bountifully filled board, and amid the unre- 
strained merriment and witticisms, partook of the mar- 
riage feast. 

Pen sat at the Inimitable’s right, and when the happy 
participants grew jovial in hilarious conversation, he 
turned to Pen and said : 

“ My charming friend, this is what I call gorgeous. 
The gods themselves were highly blest, if they ever par- 
took of such delicacies. At such a board as this, sir, the 
mythological old Greeks and early Romans — far more 
human, I have often thought, than divine — might have 
tarried forever and never tired.” 

“You are as rich as ever, Mr. Willets, in compli- 
ments,” said Pen. 

“ Ah ! my dear sir,” said Willets, “the excitement of 
the occasion has so cramped, as it were, my conversa- 
tional powers that I am wholly unable to express myself 
with that fluency which the ‘signs of the times’ warrant, 
but I will say, my dear Pen, that my stock is more val- 
uable than ever. I feel as if the dark valley into which 
I was so ruthlessly precipitated, at my parents’ death, 
was a thing of the past, and now I have climbed above 
the clouds of pecuniary troubles.” 

“ I am truly glad,” said Pen, that you feel so hope- 
ful.” 

“And I,” said the Inimitable, “am glad of the hope 


350 


THE WEDDING. 


that is within me. But sir,” he went on, “ it was a dark, 
cold, and unsympathetic world in which I floundered so 
long, on the ragged edge of financial disaster, and hope- 
deserted despair. There is an old saying that ‘ every dog 
has his day, ’and this evening verifies its correctness. 
But, sir, there have been days, months, and years of my 
pecuniary embarrassed and benighted life, that caused me 
to adhere rigidly to the belief that the saying was incor- 
rect, and that there were actually more dogs than days.” 

The hour passed pleasantly away, and when the 
guests returned to the parlors, Kittie Pembrooke seated 
herself at the piano by request, and favored them with 
some beautiful ballads, sung only as she could sing them. 
Burt Lester, in his gallantry, stood by her side and 
turned the music. When she had finished, he bent low 
and whispered : 

“ ‘ Awake, and let me dream again.’ ” 

“ Haven’t you forgotten that old song?” asked Kittie, 
looking beamingly at her companion. 

“No, strange as it may seem, I have not,” replied 
Burt, “ neither ” he went on, “have I forgotten that I 
have one more question to ask when this long and 
tedious case of mine is done with.” 

“But you have forgotten,” said Kittie, mischievously, 
“that I have found my brother, now, and’Rilla has found 
her husband, and possibly my interest languishes.” Say- 
ing this she arose from the instrument and with a pro- 
voking laugh joined the company, some of whom were 
preparing to take their leave. Thus the evening passed 
away. 

Ah, how much that word “ married ” means. Of the 
three important epochs, Birth, Marriage and Death, it is 
the merriest, yet the most solemn. The history of one, 
from there on, is inter-twined and bound up in the his- 
tory of the other. 

Many elements in nature have no affinity for one 
another, so also, do we find many who are incongenial to 
us. The sacredness of the marriage pledge should be 
paramount, however, to all else. 

Let no man cruelly trample the irrevocable vows 
breathed at the altar underneath his feet, and then com- 


THE WEDDING. 


351 


plain of unhappiness in the years to come ; for come it 
will, like an overtaking tide washing ashore the wreck 
of broken vows. 

Ever and ever in his unhappiness will he be traveling 
toward the darkness, leaving the sunlight of happiness 
behind. The shadow of his wrongs and misdeeds will 
ever be before him and though he were as fleet of foot 
as a bird in flight, yet will he never be able to pass the 
shadowy phantoms of broken pledges. 

By one way only can he leave it behind, and that is 
to turn his face Zionward, and travel back to the high 
hill of pure deeds. 

The love of a pure, good woman is a precious boon 
to any man. It is as the diamond compared with rough 
rocks from the quarry. Coarser stones may be cemented 
together again if riven apart, but the diamond’s lustre is 
forever marred when once broken. 

Women, too, have deep abysses which they should 
shun. The fetters of fashion and the love of display are 
hard task-masters, yet faithfully served by heartless, 
soulless wives and mothers all over our land. They all 
too often abandon the noble mission of being true com- 
panions to their husbands and true mothers to their 
little ones. The fashion book of dress is their Bible, 
and they are its fawning, submissive slaves. They be- 
come deserters from their homes, wholly neglecting and 
trampling under foot the sacred vows that made them in 
name a wife. 

The husband and growing sons are deprived of the 
companionship of wife and mother, and soon they be- 
come reckless, and then depravity overtakes them. 
Their very hearts become calloused over with a secret 
sorrow. They grow prematurely old in trying to hide 
their empty affections from the world. 

God help this class of blindly erring women to awake 
from the dazzling stupor of their folly, and turn their 
faces to the hearth-stone of their homes, with true 
womanly and motherly instincts. Help them to under- 
stand that the love of fashion and gaudiness is a social 
evil of stupendous magnitude. Help them to forsake 
all this, and seek the sanctuary of their husbands’ hearts, 


352 


PEN'S OLD HAMPTON HOME, 


and relight them with a new hope, become their com- 
panions in truth, and lovingly clasp the little darlings 
that gather about them to their breasts and exclaim 
through tears of penitence, “ These are my idols.” 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 


PEN VISITS HIS OLD HAMPTON HOME. 

FEW days later the friends whom we have 



learned to know received cards from Covesville 


**■ *** announcing the marriage of Mr. George Tobias 
and Mrs. Bethel. Her two sons remained at Chalmer 
University to attend that honored institution, while Mr. 
and Mrs. Tobias set out for the Mills, where they pro-* 
posed, as well as Tim Mannahan, that they should make 
their future home. 

A few days were spent at Hampton visiting with 
Zurilda Goodsil, also with Harry Baine, nor must we 
slight another household which now holds forth at this 
place. It is Mr. and Mrs. Edward Willets. They have 
a very pretty cottage, neatly painted, not far away from 
Pen’s old home. The two old oak trees are still there, 
their leaves regularly budding with the spring, maturing 
in the summer, and dropping off and blowing away with 
the chilling winds of winter. 

’Rilla tells how her flowers are to be arranged in the 
little yard in front, the following spring. She says that 
Edward is so fond of flowers, and she wants the home 
he so kindly gave her to ever wear its most attractive 
look for him. 

Did you say,” queried Aunt Zurilda, who was pres- 
ent, “that Mr. Willets gave you this place ?” 

“ Oh ! yes,” replied ’Rilla, “ he purchased it before 
we were married, and as soon as we came to Hampton 
the foolish fellow insisted in putting it in my name.” 

Zurilda Goodsil soliloquizes to herself that she didn’t 
know, for her life, where Mr. Willets got so much money, 
and thinks it looks suspicious, leastways to her. 


pen’s OLD HAMPTON HOME. 


353 


On a certain afternoon, about a week after this, Pen 
received two letters. Richard bad been to the village 
and brought them. He had a book in his hand when 
the letters were handed to him, and after thanking Rich- 
ard, he continued his walk and finally descended the old 
stone steps to the terrace below. Then he broke the seal 
and read one of them. It was from Harry Baine, and 
read as follows : 

“ Dairyfield Farm, August 3d, 18 — . 

“ Dear Pen : 

“ From the enclosed invitation you will see that lam 
soon to be married to Miss Emily Willets. You may 
say, ‘ poor blind Emily/ — I do myself, but it was no idle 
love I gave her long years ago. It is now over six years 
since we were betrothed. After she lost her sight, it was 
her expressed wish that the engagement be broken off, 
but I found as the months and years went by that I loved 
her as tenderly as ever. 

‘ In those sunken eyes the grief of years I trace, 

And sorrow seems acquainted with her face.’ 

“ The same old songs she used to sing, she sings yet, 
only with a deeper sweetness in her rich voice than ever. 
We will live with Mr. Willets, her brother, so long as 
we tarry at Hampton. It is not necessary for me to say 
how happy ’Rilla — kind-hearted woman ! — is, in antici- 
pation of having her sister-in-law and schoolmate come 
to live at Hampton. 

“ I extend a pressing invitation to your sister Kittie, 
Richard, and yourself. You will be starting back to 
Covesville soon, why not come to Cinapolis, be present 
at our marriage, and then come on to Hampton and 
visit your old home until the school term opens at the 
University ? My people ail join in sending kind regards. 
Lillie says to tell you to be sure and come. 

“ Very truly and sincerely yours, 

“ Harry Baine.” 

“Ah, noble-hearted Harry Baine !” said Pen, as he 
folded up the letter ; “ how many would have been as 


354 


PEN’S OLD HAMPTON HOME. 


true and generous to a poor blind girl. Handsome Emily 
Willets ! is it possible that she, my teacher of long ago, 
is blind ? Wiiat a lesson it teaches. Nothing is inde- 
pendent of God’s will. In an hour the beauteous flush 
of perfect health may be banished for the paleness of 
death. The beauty of youth fades with the years. The 
most silken or jetty hair will fade to one common color. 
Ah, how true and impressive are those lines of Shake- 
speare’s, where he says, — 

‘ Beauty’s a doubtful good, a glass, a flower ; 

Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour.’ 

It is the soul of man that alone survives the changing 
vicissitudes of this world, and lives on and on forever, 
It is immortal, and while tarrying in our earthly bodies, 
it is for the time separated from its parent source — our 
Creator. I sometimes think the noblest words ever 
uttered by Hannah Moore were those where, in speaking 
of the soul, she says — 

‘ The soul on earth is an immortal guest, 

Compelled to starve at an unreal feast ; 

A pilgrim panting for the rest to come * 

An exile, anxious for his native home.’ ” 

Pen picked up his book and bent his steps in search 
of Kittie, forgetting all about the unopened letter in his 
pocket. As he walked along he wondered if Lillie 
would not come to Cinapolis with her brother. The 
more he thought of it, the more he thought that she 
surely would come. It was arranged that Pen would go 
alone to Cinapolis. Richard had no desire to ever see 
that city again. Kittie would have liked very much to 
go, but Grandfather Pembrooke was now so old and 
childish that she knew he would be miserable should she 
go away. At the appointed time, Pen bid Grandfather 
and Kittie good-by. Richard brought the carriage 
around, ready to drive him to the station. 

“ Wait a moment, Richard,” said Pen, “until I 
find Bertha. I don’t see where the gypsy could have 
gone to.” 


PEN S OLD HAMPTON HOME. 


355 


“ I will go,” said Kittie, “and try to find her.” 

“ You needn’t go looking for me, for I am right 
here,” said the little lady as she appeared on the porch, 
all dressed to go riding. “Its awful mean of you, Pen,” 
she continued, “ to go away so soon ; and then you never 
asked me to go to Greenwood Station with you. But I 
am going, anyway.” 

“ My dear little Bertha,” said Pen, “ I am very sorry 
I forgot to invite you, but you shall go along with us, 
and I warrant you cannot enjoy my company more than 
I do yours.” 

When the station was reached, Pen found he only 
had time to purchase his ticket and get his baggage 
checked before the train would be in. This done, he 
hurried , back to the carriage to bid Richard good-by, 
and then take his little sister in his arms and kiss her 
rosy lips, protesting all the time to weeping Bertha that 
he would much prefer remaining at home if it were pos- 
sible. As Pen was whirled away toward Cinapolis, he 
took Harry Baine’s letter from his pocket, and re-read 
it, and fell into a reverie concerning Lillie Baine. 

“ Of course she is not what she promised to be when 
a little girl,” he thought. “ She is too worldly to suit 
me. When I am writh her I almost forget that she is so 
terribly deceitful. I do not believe there is another 
young lady in our whole class that would be guilty of 
talking behind my back as she does, and then have the 
audacity to appear so open and frank, and even friendly, 
to my face. I will,” thought he, “just have a good, 
earnest talk with her, if she comes to Cinapolis with her 
brother, and tell Miss Lillie, as I would my own sister, 
of her fault, and also explain how it pains me to know 
of her two-faced behavior. She may get very angry 
with me for my pains, but I would much rather she did 
not speak at all, than to utter falsehoods in her every 
word and look. She don’t like me ; thinks I am aristo- 
cratic, when God knows l am not, and then makes fun 
of my diminutive stature. Why am I drawn so irresist- 
ibly toward her, anyway ? She is not the Lillie Baine of 
long ago. My ideal, I fear, is destined never to find its 
reality.” 


356 


pen’s OLD HAMPTON HOME. 


When Cinapolis was at last reached, Pen was highly 
pleased to find Harry Baine at the depot. 

“ I expected you on this train,” he said, as he grasped 
Pen’s hand. 

“ It was very kind of you,” replied Pen “ to meet 
me.” 

They engaged a cab, and just as they were being 
rapidly driven away, Pen suddenly exclaimed, “ Look 
there ! look there !” in a greatly excited voice, as he 
clutched Harry’s arm. 

“ What ? where ? what is it ?” asked Harry, in a be- 
wildered way. 

“Oh, Harry,” said Pen, trembling in every joint, “I 
saw old Hinchey.” 

Quick as possible Harry thrust his head out of the 
cab window, and shouted to the driver to “hold on.” He 
then gave him orders to drive back to the depot. 

Both Harry and Pen kept a sharp lookout, and had 
the cab-man drive two or three times back and forth, but 
all to no avail. No one even resembling him could be 
seen. 

Then they set out for Mr. Dorris’s, talking of nothing 
else but old Hinchey, and wondering if it were indeed 
him. As they drew near their destination, they heard 
Emily Willets singing that old song she had sung years 
before for Pen on that evening but one, after Richard 
returned from a visit at Hampton. Then Harry Baine 
was in hearing distance, as she plaintively sang the same 
words she is singing to-night — 

“ Oh, no ! I never will grow old, 

Though years on years roll by, 

And silver o’er my dark brown hair, 

And dim forever my laughing eye.” 

There was a happy meeting that night for Pen. Mrs. 
Dorris g?«ve him a motherly welcome and Emily a sister’s 
greeting. 

“ Do you think ?” asked Emily, after she and Pen had 
conversed for some time together, “ that I am greatly 
changed ?” 


pen’s OLD HAMPTON HOME. 


357 


“No,” replied Pen, “I do not, and I confess I 
was very much surprised to see you looking so nat- 
ural. Aside from those gold spectacles with dark 
glasses you wear, I can see no change in you what- 
ever/' 

“ How do you do, Mr. Pembrooke,” said a familiar 
voice at his side, and looking up, he found Lillie Baine’s 
hand of welcome extended, and her handsome face 
wreathed in smiles. 

Their greeting was after the fashion of schoolmates, 
but nothing more, though each secretly thought they 
observed a heightening color mantle the face of the 
other. 

“Lillie and I,” said Emily, “have already become 
well acquainted.” 

“ Indeed we have,” exclaimed Lillie, as she smoothed 
back her sightless friend’s luxuriant hair from her fair 
brow. 

“I heard of you though, long ago,” said Emily, as 
she reached up and took one of Lillie's white hands in 
hers, “ I heard of you the first night I saw Pen. He spoke 
to me first of Lillie Baine.” 

Pen cast a hasty glance at Lillie, and then looked 
away half satisfied, for she was blushing deeply, and he 
well knew that he himself was coloring to the roots of 
his hair. Presently Emily laughed softly, and said teas- 
ingly, that she thought, then, that Pen’s boyish heart 
was rather tender toward the little golden-tressed girl 
who gave him his Bible, and wondered if Mr. Pembrooke 
read it as much as he used to ? 

Pen was blushing now deeper than ever, and kept 
looking out of the window at the mellow rays of the 
August moon, hoping that Lillie would say something 
for an answer. 

But she never said a word, and when Pen turned to 
answer for himself, he caught the triumphant glance 
that fell from Lillie's eyes, as if she were rejoicing at 
his confused and burning face. 

“ I read the Holy Bible, Miss Willets,” Pen answered 
firmly, “every day of my life, because of the truths 
found therein.” He was angry at himself for having 


358 


pen’s OLD HAMPTON HOME. 


blushed at all, and angry at Lillie for her heartlessness 
in looking so triumphantly at him. 

“ Has the moon came up yet?” asked Emily. 

“Oh, yes !” Lillie replied, “it is almost as light as 
day, isn’t it, Mr. Pembrooke ?” 

“I do not presume,” said Pen rather stiffly, “that 
Miss Willets cares for better authority than your own 
word.” 

“ Better authority Y’ repeated Lillie, laughing in such 
a provoking way that Pen was almost exasperated. “ I 
suppose,” she went on, “if better authority is needed, 
you would be the one person to give it.” 

“ I do not mean to use the word ‘ better,’ but ‘ addi- 
tional ’ authority,” replied Pen. 

“ Come, come,” said Emily, “ if you two do not cease 
your sparring, I will play school teacher and punish 
somebody severely. I want some flowers from the yard, 
will you go and make up a bouquet for me ?” 

“Certainly,” replied Lillie. “ Mr. Pembrooke, will 
you please act as my escort ? It would be lonely to go 
alone.” 

Pen made no audible reply, but accompanied her 
into the front yard that stretched dowm to the street. 
Bed after bed of fragrant flowers bordered the walks, 
and soon they had a beautiful bouquet gathered. When 
they started back to the house, Lillie slipped her arm 
confidingly through his, and in her sweetest voice said : 
“Come, Mr Pembrooke, we are friends, are we not? I 
don’t mean anything by my jesting talk.” 

“Lillie,” said Pen turning to her, “my greatest wish 
and prayer is that you do not mean much that you have 
said.” His words were so earnest that Lillie could not 
reply, and again they walked on in silence. 

Presently Lillie asked : “ Are you angry with me for 
anything I have said? Truly, Mr. Pembrooke, I want 
you for my friend.” 

“No, not angry, only grieved,” replied Pen, “and 
sometime after to-night I will tell you how much.” 

Ah, after to-night ! but how long after, little did 
either guess. 

When Pen sought his room to retire, he threw off his 


PEN’S OLD HAMPTON HOME. 


359 


coat, and as he did so a number of letters fell out. As 
he gathered them up he thought that Lillie Baine was 
perhaps not so much changed from her former self as 
he had imagined. In running the letters over, he was 
surprised to find one with the seal not yet broken. He 
hastily opened it. The letter was from Lin Brinkerhoff, 
and read as follows : 

“ Hampton, August 3rd, 18 — 

“ Dear Pen : 

“I am impatient to see you, for I have a secret to 
communicate. I feel like a brother toward you, and 
hope you reciprocate my feelings, and also will congrat- 
ulate me upon the secret which I will now confide into 
your keeping. Did I not know your trustworthiness, I 
would never dare to reveal it. I am betrothed to Lillie 
Baine. We will not think of getting married, however, 
until after our college days are over. I want you for 
my brother and friend always, and think that in time I 
can win for you her friendship. Please return the let- 
ter to me for fear you might lose it. We have agreed 
to keep our betrothal a profound secret, but I cannot 
think of keeping it from you. You must be guarded, 
and never mention it to a living soul. 

“ Most sincerely your old chum, 

“ Lin Brinkerhoff.” 

When Pen read this letter, he realized fully for the 
first time in his life that Lillie Baine, with all her faults, 
was the one woman in the whole world for whom his 
own deep affection burned. He crushed the letter in 
his hands, and even trampled it, but afterward he 
smoothed it out, and folding it carefully, put it away in 
his portmanteau. Long into the night he sat pondering 
over and over in his mind whether he should go on with 
college studies at Covesville, or go somewhere else. 
Long and earnestly he prayed for Divine help to know 
and do his duty. When the gray dawn of morning broke, 
it found him still walking his room. At last his sej: 
features relaxed, and the calm of his better decision 
mantled his face. He would forget this human affection. 
No one should ever be the wiser because of this sleep- 


360 


pen’s OLD HAMPTON HOME. 


less night. “I will ever be on my guard, and Cole-' 
ridge’s lines shall not be true of me, where he says : 

‘ In many ways does the full heart reveal 
The presence of the love it would conceal.’ ” 

“ There is a love that passes not away forever, and 
to Him will I ever turn and follow in the ways of God- 
liness. ‘ Whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth.’ ” 

The wedding of Harry Baine and Emily Willets was 
a very quiet affair, no one but Mr. Daniel Lester’s family 
being present. It was Emily’s request that it should be 
so. 

After the ceremony was over, Lillie and Pen were 
again walking among the flowers, gathering a large 
bouquet to take to ’Rilla, for they were to start on the 
evening train for Hampton. 

“Do you think it strange, Mr. Pembrooke, that 
brother Harry would marry any one that is blind ?” 

“ I do not,” replied Pen, “ for I firmly believe their 
whole affections are given to one another. Marriages,” 
he went on, “ frequently take place when this is not the 
case, then the white-winged messenger that hovers over 
the marriage altar is all too soon transformed, in a short 
time, to selfishness and cruel injustice to the true affec- 
tion that may linger in the breast of either, and the 
sacredness of the vows disregarded.” 

“ Why have you such faith in Brother Harry’s mar- 
riage ?” 

“Because,” replied Pen, “ Emily is a true Christian 
woman in spirit and in truth, and where the pure love 
of our Saviour is found, there is no room for selfish- 
ness.” 

That evening the good-byes were said, and Harry and 
his bride, Pen and Lillie Baine started for Hampton. 
This was Pen’s first visit to his old home since he was 
sent to the McGuffin farm. True, he had been back to 
Hampton once since then — that fatal night he fell into 
old Hinchey’s hands. 

The greetings that were extended them at Hampton 
we will not pause to describe, but will accompany Pen 


pen’s OLD HAMPTON HOME. 


361 


in his visit, the following morning, to his old home 
and the scenes along the rocky stream so familiar to his 
youth. 

Early the morning following their arrival, he bent 
his steps toward the old wood-colored cottage where still 
lived Aunt Zurilda. His beating heart kept time to his 
eager steps as he approached the old home — the home 
where he was born. There stood the two oak trees as 
large as life, and bent their huge boughs in the morning 
breeze in a friendly recognition, he fancied, to his com- 
ing. The old house looked natural, but seemed lower 
than it used to be. The , fences, too, seemed to have 
sunken down since he first remembered them. 

Ah ! How well he remembered when he still wore 
dresses, and played about in this very yard. He had to 
throw his head far back then to see the top of the pal- 
ings in the fence, as he stood tugging and pulling at 
the staves with his baby hands, and kicked them un- 
mercifully with the copper toes of his first pair of shoes. 
There was the window of his little bed-room— the win- 
dow-sill so low and near the ground, yet he well re- 
membered when he was scarce tall enough to look over 
it. There also was the rockery he remembered seeing 
his father build — was it yesterday ? It seemed so. But 
it was crumbling away, and many of the rocks had been 
thrown down.' Ah ! What monument can man build 
that will not at last become a ruin, and even memory 
fade away until his reality is lost in tradition. 

Pen rapped gently at the door, for to him it was 
sacred, the handiwork of his father. The door was 
opened by Aunt Zurilda. Time had deepened the fur- 
rows of her face and silvered her hair with a deeper 
frost. 

Pen waited a moment, and then said, “ Aunt Zurilda, 
how do you do. Do you not remember me ? Have I, 
aunt,” said he, looking about him, “ grown tall, instead 
of everything else around growing low ?” 

“Well, who be you, anyway ?” asked the spinster 
aunt, good-naturedly, while a half-smile, mingled with 
suspense, lit up her face. 

“ It is unpoetic Pen.” 

16 


362 


PEN’S OLD HAMPTON HOME. 


“ Pen ! Is it possible that this is Pen ?” ejaculated 
his aunt, while she at the same time gave him such an- 
other hugging as she had not given any one for years. 
“ I do declare, Pen, I wouldn’t have known ye, least 
ways I don’t think I should. Law, but I am glad to 
see you.” 

“ Thank you, aunt,” said Pen. “ I, too, am happy to 
see you and the dear old place again.” 

After they had conversed pleasantly for some time, 
the servant announced that breakfast was ready. Pen 
was given his old accustomed seat at the table, and 
greatly enjoyed the steaming breakfast. When the re- 
past was over, he started out for a ramble through the 
woods. Aunt Zurilda first, however, made him promise 
that he would make his home with her while he re- 
mained in Hampton. ‘‘You shall,” said she, “have your 
old bed-room that you used to sleep in when a child.” 

As he walked along he met old companions in the 
very rocks and trees that surrounded him. The little 
brook seemed narrower than it used to be. Now he 
could easily step across old familiar places that once 
seemed so wide to him. 

“Ah,” thought Pen, “ what a halo of brightness in- 
vests our past when thus beckoned back from all else, to 
our childhood’s haunts. These are the paths my childish 
feet trod when a merry, bare-footed, care-free boy. I 
used to think then a good many thorns beset some of 
them, for shoeless boys to travel, but, alas, I have found 
since ; better broken tracks than these with thrice the 
thorns. On the golden harp of memory,” mused Pen, 
“ I have often heard these gurgling waters in their cease- 
less summer song, and from their recollection I never 
will be divorced, though bitter waves break over me and 
gloomy shadows darken my sunshine of hope. The 
memory of these old haunts, during all these years of 
separation from them, has been the silken cord that 
pulled and tugged at my wandering feet until at last I 
loosened its tension by coming nearer.” 


FIRST DISAPPOINTMENT. 


303 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

LIN BRINKERHOFF’s FIRST DISAPPOINTMENT. 

S CHOOL commenced again at Chalmer University. 
Classes were hourly reciting, day after day, month 
after month, and year after year. Whosoever 
thinks when his or her college days commence that 
graduating day is away off toward the end of time will 
sooner or later, as the spindle of time whirls on, look 
back on those college days as the shortest of their 
lives. 

The professors become as our fathers, and our fellow- 
students as brothers and sisters, while the old college 
itself is our “ Alma Mater.” 

Perhaps, however, the greatest happiness we enjoy 
of a school life is the memory of it in after years, when 
its monotony has become lost from memory and forever 
buried with our own and our classmates’ shortcomings. 

Then the happy times and the sunny side of our 
associates are gilded over with burnished gold, which 
grows brighter and brighter with the receding years. 

Perhaps the greatest disappointment we can be sub- 
jected to in after years, when our own locks tell the 
story of coming frosts, is to meet some favorite class- 
mate who has ceased rowing on the river of time, and 
let his bark float carelessly and recklessly in the current 
of intemperance. Years ago, when commencement day 
was over, and we shook hands with him at parting, his 
face was beardless and his fair complexion untainted by 
the demon — strong drink. No greater disappointment 
can man feel than this, to meet in advanced years a 
ruined wreck of one so promising in youth. Ah, how 
many lives are but broken promises ! 

At Chalmer University, Lin Brinkerhoff held the first 
place in his class, and when after almost four years of 
school life had slipped away, he was the one selected to 
deliver the Valedictory Address. During these years he 
had grown some taller, and was a handsome, promising 


364 


FIRST DISAPPOINTMENT. 


ambitious man. Pen had also grown in stature, but was 
still the same religious man that he had ever been a boy. 
Lillie Baine was a bright, intelligent young lady, and a 
universal favorite among her classmates. She and Pen 
seldom, however, seemed to care for each other’s society. 
The ruinous work of estrangement which Lin so artfully 
commenced, he had with surprising skill kept up. It 
cannot be said that Lillie Baine ever shunned Pen’s com- 
pany, no, not that, but she was made to feel, by his silent, 
moody reserve, that she could hold no thought in com- 
mon with him. Irresistibly she was drawn toward him, 
however, like the incoming tide, and had Pen only known 
it took hard fighting on Lin Brinkerhoff’s party to keep 
the waves back, but so far he had succeeded. If he was 
extravagant in deceitfulness and hard study, he certainly 
was not in a financial way. In fact, the detective who 
had been stationed to shadow him reported that no young 
gentleman with fourteen thousand dollars at his corn- 
man could be one half as economical as was he. Not a 
penny was ever spent foolishly, while both his dress and 
living were exceedingly plain. The shadow, after the 
first year, was relieved from his Covesville charge, and 
Lin, although none the wiser, was freed from, a detec- 
tive’s guardianship. 

One evening in early June, only two weeks before 
the graduating exercises were to take place, Pen invited 
Lin to go with him to prayer meeting. 

“ I would accompany you, Pen,” was Lin’s reply, 
“ only that I have an engagement with Miss Baine. Per- 
mission has been given us to go riding, and I am going 
to squander the first dollar I have spent foolishly since I 
came to the University.” 

“ You say you would go,” observed Pen, “were it not 
for this engagement. Suppose you had no engagement, 
would you go then to please me, or because you are be- 
ginning to believe the Bible ?” 

“ My dear friend,” answered Lin, “ I would go to 
please you, and for no other reason whatever.” 

Pen’s face wore a pained expression, for he was sorry 
to hear Lin make such an answer. 

“ We are the same age, Pen,” continued Lin, “but I 


FIRST DISAPPOINTMENT. 


365 


have seen some things in my searching among men and 
books that you seemingly have over-looked. Your God 
has never answered your prayers, Pen, — of this I am cer- 
tain ; and I tell you now there is no God and no here- 
after. You are worshipping a myth — a shadow of tra- 
dition. The bubble that you fain would reach to for 
strength, is ever just beyond your grasp, and you will 
pant on with weariness in your eager, hopeless chase, 
until old age and death overtake you ; and yet, from it 
you will receive no benefit. 

“ When I want anything, or have any secret ambition, I 
do not get down and pray for it. The winds would an- 
swer my prayer, if I did, as quickly as would your God. 
No, sir, that is not my way of doing business, but quietly 
I start to work, take the whole business into my own 
hands, trust to my own skill, depend on no one, and al- 
ways win. The great ambition of my life was to gradu- 
ate at some recognized college, and here I am only two 
weeks from commencement day.” 

“But,” said Pen. “you have not graduated yet.” 

Lin started at his companion’s words, as if he had 
been stung. Little did Pen think that he had uttered a 
prophecy. Little did he think that he had given utter- 
ance to a single half dozen words that would ring 
like the muffled toll of a bell in Lin’s ears through 
the long years to come. “ But you have not graduated 
yet.” 

“My faith,” Pen went on. “ teaches me to believe 
that evil is not for eternity. The prosperity that has its 
foundation on evil and disbelief, will sooner or later 
become a burden to the possessor. Why it is, Lin, that 
God, the Infinite, Allwise Creator, suffers evil to sweep 
like a tidal wave over the earth and into all classes of 
society, is not a question for me or any other finite creat- 
ure to attempt to answer. It is a mystery that cannot 
be known by us.” 

“Look at your churches and church members,” said 
Lin. “ For instance, the fashionable churches found in 
our city, especially. The pews in some of them are put 
up and sold at such exorbitant prices that the poor man 
is crowded out, and he goes elsewhere. When he gets 


360 


FIRST DISAPPOINTMENT. 


elsewhere, he finds the same far-up-above-him feeling 
among, not only the aristocratic members, but also in 
the ministry. 

“ A man that can look on the pompous, self-sufficient 
air that a great many ministers extend toward the poor 
of their flock and not be utterly disgusted, is certainly 
very blind. Yet, however, the smooth broadcloth and 
rustling silk come near these ministers, and then see 
how quickly they bow down to what they term their 
influential members, and actually fawn about these pos* 
sessors and lovers of Mammon like sycophants. You 
Pen, may be foolishly in earnest. I believe you are candid 
in your views, yet, if you will search through and 
through all these different creeds, you will find that nine- 
ty-nine per cent, of them are specially interested in the 
agg ra ndi zem ent of their own particular church and sect, 
and when not thus engaged, they are gossiping about 
and libeling other denominations. In fact, they actually 
hate every church but their own, yet they all claim the 
Bible is the rule and guide of their faith. Now, if this 
book, the Bible, is a divine revelation, how does it come, 
there is such a confusion of opinion regarding it, and so 
much bickering among those who profess to believe in 
it ? These questions, Pen, are simply unanswerable, and 
so you need not try it, for I must be going.” 

“But, Lin, let me ask you one question,” said Pen ; 
“if there was a Judas among the chosen twelve, may we 
not reasonably expect to find Judases in these latter 
times, even where we least expect them ?” 

Lin winced noticeably at this question, for it had a 
peculiar significance to himself. 

“I haven’t time,” he hastily answered, “ to discuss 
the subject farther to-night.” 

As Lin hurried along the street, for the horse and 
carriage he had engaged for the evening, he thought of 
Pen’s question, and wondered if his old playmate actu- 
ally suspected anything, “Judases in these latter times, 
even where we least expect them.” Then came Pen’s 
strange remark, “ But you have not graduated yet !” It 
kept ringing in his ears, and filled him with a dread and 
foreboding he could not shake off or dismiss from his 


FIRST DISAPPOINTMENT. 


367 


mind. Then he paused for a moment, and looking up 
to the star bedecked canopy, murmured to himself, “I 
do wish I had Pen’s faith. There is nothing satisfactory 
in the whole field of my belief, or rather my disbelief, 
and no hope. The only evidence I have is my own suc- 
cess. Two weeks more; — two weeks more,” he solilo- 
quized, as he hurried on, “and then the ambitions of my 
boyhood days are crowned with success. But 1 have 
another ambition now, which comes wdth these college 
years. Lillie Baine must be mine. What haven’t I done 
to keep her from Pen ? My calendar of fasehood and 
down-right Judas actions would, if there was a God, 
damn me forever.” 

Thus he mused, until Lillie Baine was seated by his 
side in the carriage, and they were driving rapidly away 
down one of the shady streets. Even then Pen’s words 
would keep coming, surging and crowding into his mind, 
notwithstanding he fought hard to dismiss the forebod- 
ings that hovered like unseparable companions, with the 
words, “ You have not graduated yet.” He was determ- 
ined, however, to win by his own indomitable will and 
strength, which never yet had /ailed him, and make the 
most of this evening. 

“ It is very seldom wise,” said Lin, “to talk your in- 
most thoughts aloud, but sometimes impulsive people 
will do so. I was just thinking. Miss Lillie,” he went on, 
“that this seemed my first taste of Eden, — in fact, this 
very drive seems to be carrying me through the ivied 
entrance.” 

“ I hope your experience, Mr. Brinkerhoff,” said Lil- 
lie, smiling, “ will not be of as short duration as a cer- 
tain Biblical character.” 

“1 would be willing,” replied Lin, “to go out as 
Adam did, if you accompany me.” 

“Thank you,” replied Lillie, “I do not care to be en- 
tertained with banishment.” 

“To tell you the candid truth, Lillie,” said Lin, 
meditatively, “ I have come to have a very poor opinion 
of myself. While the world says that my career, so far, 
has been successful, I know within myself that I would 
have been a far better boy, and man, if I could have seen 


368 


FIRST DISAPPOINTMENT. 


more of you and been stimulated with the hope that for 
a long, long time has been paramount to all else.” 

Lillie was not blind. She understood his meaning, 
and was very sorry that her classmate was so near- 
sighted. “ He certainly knows,” she thought, “I do not 
want more than his friendship, for I have nothing better 
to give him in return.” She assumed a jesting manner, 
and said : “ I do believe, Mr. Brinkerhoff, that you have 
the ‘ blues.’ Cheer up. Commencement day is close at 
hand, and you are to be the star of our class.” 

“ Lillie,” said Lin, while his whole face was crimsoned 
over with determination, “ I will be the happiest man 
living, if you will only make me so. My feelings that 
have been gathering force for so many months, can no 
longer be restrained within the limits of friendship, or 
held with its gossamer thread, for a silken web of far 
greater strength has been woven. Your light words are 
surely not an index, as rippling waters are, of a shallow" 
friendship stream. No, it cannot be. Your feelings 
must have a depth to them. Mine, for you, Lillie, are 
deep and lasting, and stretch on out through futurity to 
the grave. You, above all else, are the object of my 
warmest and deepest affection. Will you not, dear 
Lillie, give me your promise to one day become my 
wife ?” 

She turned and looked deep into his face, and saw 
how madly earnest he really w r as. For a moment she 
could not speak ; while Lin’s suspense knew no bounds. 
Finally, in a low, earnest voice, that was now free from 
any jesting, she said : “ Lin, I cannot answer you now as 
you wish, nor do I know that I ever can. What I say, 
though, shall be said with true womanly frankness. I 
have a true sisterly feeling for you, nothing more.” 

Lin made an effort to speak, but she motioned him to 
silence. 

“ If ever,” she went on, “ I feel different toward you, 
it will be at a time in the future. You have always been 
kind and generous to me, and no woman is blind or deaf 
to admiration from others. You say your affection for 
me is lasting, and stretches on and on to the grave. Does 
true and pure affection cease there or does it reach away 
beyond the grave ?” 


FIRST DISAPPOINTMENT. 


369 


Lin could not answer her question, for it involved too 
much that was wearying and doubtful. 

“ You can always know,” said Lillie, presently, “ that 
I am your friend.” 

“And nothing more?” said Lin, frigidly. “That, 
Miss Baine, is what you mean, — why seek to evade the 
truth. You have rejected me, and it is needless for you 
to mask your refusal with well chosen words.” 

Lillie was too much pained with his cutting words, his 
changed and icy look, to reply. They rode on for a time 
in silence. 

This was Lin’s first disappointment. Never before 
had he been thwarted, because, as he said to himself, “ I 
always have depended on myself, but the moment I at- 
tempt to depend on another, or seek to ally my destiny 
with this fair girl’s, then disappointment sets in.” 

Shortly after this, he headed his horse toward the 
Ladies’ Boarding Hall, and after assisting Lillie to 
alight, bade her a hasty good evening, and drove rapidly 
away, muttering to himself that it was a black Friday 
night for him. 

As he wended his way home along the deserted 
streets, those words of Pen’s rung like a tolling knell in 
his ears : “You have not graduated yet.” “ Oh !” said he, 
“ it is all so dark and lonely. If I had Lillie Baine — ah ! 
Lillie Baine — to go with me* I would not shrink. But 
no. She will not put her faith in me, by returning rny 
love. She, like Pen, believes there is a God and a 
hereafter, while my belief only teaches me annihila- 
tion.” 

Presently he heard, or seemed to hear, a low mur- 
muring voice, which said, “ Why were you ever created, 
and permitted to thus learn the lesson of love, only to 
have the cup of anticipated happiness dashed rudely to 
the earth, your very heart strings torn and lacerated ; 
left to live on for a time, in regret, and eventually to 
pass away and go back to dust ? Is it true,” continued 
the voice, “ that this is the end ? Is it forever? Is it an 
eternal sleep, from which there is no waking, down in 
the narrow grave, with grasses and flowers growing up, 
and the sun and stars looking down ?” Then the voice 
16 * 


370 


FIRST DISAPPOINTMENT. 


ceased. “ It really does not look reasonable,” solilo- 
quized Lin. “ Oh, if I only knew !” 

He turned his steps toward the cemetery, for he felt 
that the tombstones and marble columns would be fit 
companions for his mood. 

The night was beautiful, and as the old moon came 
slowly up, its soft light threw a mellow radiance over 
the landscape. He sat down on a rustic seat, which had 
been stationed there by some one who loved to come 
and in silence visit the white-robed dead. Away before 
him, like the streets of a sleeping city, stretched the 
aisle of tombstones, one side reflecting back the soft rays 
of the moon, and the other marking the commencement 
of the long shadows. The melancholy sighing of the 
wind stirred the evergreen boughs gently, very gently, 
as if fearful of waking the silent sleepers. His eyes fell 
on an epitaph near him, which said, “ He that believeth 
in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.” “ Oh !” 
said he, aloud, “.if I could only believe that, death in- 
deed would lose its hideousness to me.” He turned to 
another epitaph and read, “ Oh ! Death, where is thy 
sting? Oh! Grave, where is thy victory?” “Am I 
wrong ? Am I wrong ?” he groaned in anguish. “ Is 
the Bible true, and philosophy only a bewildering and 
an alluring myth ?” He looked up to the glittering 
stars above for an answer, but no answer came. 

From early childhood he had gazed up at these dia- 
monds of night, and wondered where they came from. 
But there they were still, as glittering and bright as 
when he was a child, studding the bending dome of 
Heaven, the waveless ocean of space. 

“ Will they forever and forever shine on in dumb 
silence — or are they indeed God’s beacon torches to 
light the departing spirits of men up and up to a Heav- 
enly home? I know,” said Lin, “that the Bible answers 
these questions, but if I accept it, my philosophy must 
be renounced. She believes, yes, Lillie Baine believes, 
in a home beyond this life, a resurrection from the grave. 
Shall I yet hope for her or trample and crush the word 
hope from out my memory ? Was this night’s disap- 
pointment my recompense for past misdeeds and sins? 


THREE VILLIANS CAPTURED. 


371 


Were Pen’s words prophetic? No ! no !” cried he turn- 
ing and walking swiftly homeward.-. “ I will steel my 
voice, I will forget these trying, bewildering questions, 
and cleave to my philosophy. The day may be far dis- 
tant, but it will come, when Lillie, Baine will regret in 
bitterness her decision. I will go on as I have com- 
menced, and win success and place my heel on every 
obstacle.” 

On reaching his room, he threw himself down on his 
bed. His clinched teeth and determined frown told all 
too plainly the course of his thoughts. Contrary to his 
expectations, he fell asleep. When he awoke, smother- 
ed sobs convulsed his frame ; but why he wept he did 
not know. He could only remember that in his troub- 
led dream he saw his mother kneeling beside him, wring- 
ing her hands in anguish. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


THREE VILLAINS CAPTURED. 



N the very evening of the day that Lillie Baine 


rejected Lin BrinkerhofFs hand, a cypher mes- 


sage came to Hampton, addressed to Burt Les- 


ter under an assumed name. It requested his presence 
at once, and was signed by Lawyer Westover. 

Accordingly, the next day found the detective in the 
metropolis, and at an early hour he wended his steps to 
the attorney’s office. Arriving there, he was warmly 
greeted by Mr. Westover, who was in every sense of the 
word a perfect gentleman, possessed of all the shrewd- 
ness of his profession, yet endowed with a judicial turn 
of mind seldom met with. His greatest strength appear- 
ed in cases of the greatest emergency. In legal storms 
he was as immovable as the giant oak, while to the weak, 
and those in lowly life he was as gentle as an April 
shower, his sympathies ever being with the oppressed. 

After they had conversed for some time in a deeply 
earnest conversation, Burt said, “ This is surely a strange 
communication. However, I will go at nine o’clock to- 


372 


THREE VILLIANS CAPTURED. 


night to the place indicated, on Dearborn street, and 
learn what I can.” Here he took a small piece of crump- 
led paper from his pocket, unfolded it and read again. 
This anonymous letter had been received by Mr/ West- 
over through the mail, and read as follows : 

“ Mr. Westover : 

“ Sir: — If you will have Mr. Lester, the detective, 
meet me at exactly nine o'clock on Dearborn street, 
near the Crescent, any evening this week, he will 
learn something to his advantage. Tell him to carry 
a roll of paper in his left hand. He must come 
alone. 

“ Yours respectfully, 

u ” 

It was with cloudy misgivings and a keen sense of 
danger, that Burt started from the Tremont, at just fif- 
teen minutes before nine o’clock, to the place designated 
in the strange letter. He had taken the precaution be- 
forehand, however, to have a cabman stationed near the 
place of meeting. 

Arriving at the “ Crescent,” the detective took a turn 
or two up and down the walk. His right hand was in- 
serted in the breast of his coat, firmly grasping his 
Colt’s “navy,” while his left hand, in which he carried a 
roll of paper, swung at his side. 

Presently an old man came walking down the street. 
He was considerably stooped over and in his right hand 
he carried a staff-like cane. Coming up with Burt, he 
said, in a half audible voice, “ Burt Lester ?” The de- 
tective turned on the speaker quickly, but was motioned 
to silence. The old man then bent his seemingly aged 
and infirm steps toward the cab, closely followed by the 
detective. 

“ Have you a room ?” asked the stranger. 

“ I have — at the Tremont,” replied Burt. 

“ Drive there at once,” said the old man, and in a 
very steady voice for one so seemingly decrepit. 

A little later they were set down at the hotel, and 
soon after reached the privacy of the detective’s 


THREE VILLAINS CAPTURED. 


373 


room. When Burt turned from fastening the door he 
found himself face to face, not with an old man, but 
with an old acquaintance, Bob Bradfield, a brother de- 
tective. 

In another instant two hands were outstretched, and 
Burt said, in a cheery voice : 

“Bob Bradfield, by heavens. When did you leave 
England, and how in the world do you happen to be in 
Chicago ?” 

“ And why the devil,” supplemented Bradfield, “ am 
I writing letters about you and not signing them ?” As 
Bradfield said this, his twinkling eyes were speaking 
volumes, telling Burt how pleased he was at this meet- 
ing. “ I am more than glad to see you, Burt ; you look 
as natural and unchanged as your friendship is un- 
changing.” 

“The same to you,” replied Burt, in his cheerfulest 
tone, “ but what are you doing here, Brad, anyway ?” 

“ Diving for pearls,” replied Bradfield, “ and this old 
man’s make up is my diving suit, and it well nigh sweats 
me to death. I will not ask you,” he went on, “what 
work you have in hand, for I am posted in part any- 
way.” 

“ How did you drop on to what I was doing ?” 

“ I learned from the agency here that you had quit 
them several years ago, and were now operating on your 
own account. The manager said he furnished a detec- 
tive from the force to assist you in shadowing a young 
chap by the name of Brinkerhoff, who is attending col- 
lege somewhere, and that Lawyer Westover was the 
attorney in the case. I also learned that a large sum of 
money was the object of your long search.” 

“And as soon as you heard this,” said Burt, smiling, 
“you wrote this anonymous letter?” 

“ No, indeed,” replied Bradfield. “ It was weeks ago 
when I learned this. Much as I wanted to see you, I 
would not have been selfish enough to call you away 
from your sentinel post had I not some good news to 
communicate.” 

“News for me ?” queried Burt, impatiently. 

“Yes,” replied Brad, as he was usually called, “ news 


374 


THREE YILL1ANS CAPTURED. 


for you, but before I commence the narration of what I 
have to say, we will light up some of the finest cigars 
you ever whiffed at.” 

The cigars were soon lit and the blue rings of smoke 
curling away toward the open window. 

“ You see,” said Bradfield, as he gave an uncommonly 
long pull at his cigar, “ I am on a big chase, myself — 
one that has carried me all over England, and finally to 
America. About three months ago I tracked my prey 
to Cinapolis, and then to Chicago, and I will, I think, 
very soon have my man caged. A cousin of mine, who 
lives here is an employee in one of the National Banks. 
He is a fine fellow, a number one business man, and 
stands high with the bank president, Mr. Isaac Lomgard. 
In fact, I am quite proud of him for my cousin — don’t 
know whether he can say as much for me or not. Three 
days ago I called at the bank a few minutes before it 
closed in the afternoon, to see my relative on a matter of 
business, and while there he entered on his books 
twenty-one thousand dollars of government bonds that 
had recently been puichased by a Miss E. Brinkerhoff.” 

“ What !” said Burt, as he came to his feet in his 
transport of enthusiasm. “ Are you sure you made no 
mistake in the name?” 

“ Sit down, Burt,” said Bradfield, “ don’t be excited ; 
I am perfectly sure of just what I am talking about.” 

Burt quieted down, and at Bradfield’s request gave 
him an outline and history of the aggravating case he 
had now been wrestling with for so many years. 

“To be sure,” added Burt, “I have made other dis- 
coveries during the time, that have compensated me, and 
which, in all probability I would not have made, had it 
not been for this case. Now, Brad, my old friend, let 
me hear what you are following up.” Saying this, Burt 
lit a fresh cigar, and settled back to play the part of a 
listener. 

“The case I am on now,” said Bradfield, “I have 
been at for three years. There was a tragedy committed 
in London — a murder and a robbery — by a man who 
bears a number of names. The victim was an old man 
who resided alone. He was known to be very wealthy, 


THREE VILLI A NS CAPTURED. 375 

and the murderer, whoever he was, has one finger miss- 
ing from his left hand. I know this from the imprint 
in the earth in the murdered man’s garden. In fact, his 
hand and foot marks were my only clue. At last I traced 
him to America, and found that he had made his head- 
quarters at different cities along the Ohio River, and 
finally came to Chicago.” 

“What is his name ?” asked Burt, impatiently. 

“ He has a half-dozen different names,” replied Brad- 
field, “ but his right name is Harlan Barretson.” 

“Barretson ?” repeated Burt, then gave a low whistle 
and said, “well, how deucedly strange things come 
about. Harlan Barretson is the man,” Lester went on, 
“ that I succeeded once in thwarting.” 

It then came Bradfield’s turn to grow interested and 
impatient. In a few words Burt told all he knew of him 
and his crimes in America. 

Long into the night they sat conversing thus, to one 
another, and when at- last they did throw themselves down 
to sleep a few hours, Burt found that to forget in sleep 
the glad news he had learned was impossible. 

Over and over in his mind twirled the golden key to 
the mystery that had baffled him so long. Even when 
at last he did fall asleep, his dreams were as full of it as 
had been his waking thoughts. 

We will leave them fora time, thus wrapt in slumber, 
and glide noiselessly out of their room and away through 
space to Hampton. 

The night operator who succeeded Lin was on duty, 
and the hour was approaching midnight. A little back 
of the depot building, in the shadow of a stately tree, 
were four figures crouched down close together. Harry 
Baine’s face can be dimly seen through the darkness, 
while the long, lithe individual at his side can be none 
other than the Inimitable Willets. The other two are 
old friends of ours. One is “Tobs” of the long ago, 
now usually called Uncle George Tobias. The other is 
Richard. It seems that both the latter had come to 
Hampton, a day or two before, to pay a short visit to 
the Inimitable and family. 

Why they are thus secretly and silently, but no doubt 


370 


THREE VILLI ANS CAPTURED. 


impatiently, waiting for the incoming train, is easily 
told. 

Just before noon, while Willets was on duty, a mes- 
sage flashed over the wires from the station nearest the 
McGuffin farm to Cinapolis. It read as follows : 

“To C. Mack, Cinapolis : 

Come to-night. Hampton. Don’t fail. 

H. Barret.” 

Now this telegram of itself told very little, yet it had 
aroused Willets’ suspicions to the utmost. He at once 
communicated the contents of this message to Harry 
Baine, and he also was of the opinion that it meant more 
than it said. 

Accordingly, Richard and his uncle were invited to 
join them, as Willets said, “in laying for the great Amer- 
ican wretch, the Consuming Cancer of the Age.” 
“ After he is tied, gentleman,” the Inimitable went on, 
in a low voice, “that is, securely tied, I want you to just 
give Edward Willets a chance at him.” 

“You insist,” said Richard, laughing, “upon hav- 
ing him securely bound before you have a chance at 
him ?” 

“ My highly respected and greatly beloved brother- 
in-law,” said Willets, bringing his long big-jointed fore- 
finger into the attitude of admonition, “I freely admit, 
sir, that I have no great yearning to be entertained by 
or to entertain, C. McGuffin in a raw, unseasoned con- 
dition. Season him once with strong cords and I am at 
his service. There was a time, sir, — before I became the 
head of a cherished and cherishing family, before the 
fibers of my heart were wrapt about with the tender love 
of a noble woman, — that I viewed these matters differ- 
ently. Then I had fora backer the cold, bleak and cheer- 
less world. My entertainment consisted chiefly of pecun- 
iary embarrassments and financial disasters, and, to be 
candid, the entertainment was such a long-winded affair 
that it actually grew monotonous, but thanks to the 
purse of my dear old Uncle Timothy Mannahan, the 
fortune I saw all along in perspective, hove in sight, — 
at a very critical time, too, — enabling me to purchase a 


THREE VILLIANS CAPTURED. 


377 


diamond ring for my lady fair, and provide ourselves with 
a cottage home.” 

“ Hi will, ” said Tobs, “ provide myself, you k*ow, 
with ha ’ome hif Hi can get McGufiin, the bloody chap, 
to pay me back the money ’e so ’einously pilfered my 
pockets hof, you know.” 

The whistling of the incoming train put a stop to 
their whisperings. 

The four emerged from the shadow of their retreat 
and walked cautiously up to the depot platform. There, 
sure enough, was a short stout man, who stepped off the 
car platform, but instead of a full beard he wore side 
whiskers, and then his apparel was more fashionable 
than the Phenomenal McGufiin wore in former years. 
If the Inimitable’s companions at any time thought he 
would prove cowardly, their suspicions were quickly re- 
moved by what followed. 

Heretofore we have seen that Willets possessed con- 
siderable skill as a pugilist. The brass-buttoned con- 
ductor, with lantern in hand, stepped inside the operator’s 
room a moment, and the portly stranger sauntered back 
and forth looking into the open door. All this Harry 
Baine and his three companions were observing from 
their concealed point of observation. 

Presently, the Inimitable, with one stride steps upon 
the platform, and a moment later is at the stranger’s 
side, “How do you do, Mr. McGufiin,” he says, and 
quickly the stranger turns about and confronts the long 
figure. Before the astonished stranger can reply, Wil- 
lets asks, in his most courteous manner, if Mr. McGufiin 
wants to see Lin Brinkerhoff ? 

“ I wanted to see young Brinkerhoff, but my name 
isn’t McGufiin. You are mistaken.” 

Quicker than a flash the Inimitable with one power- 
ful blow felled the stranger — who was none other than 
the Phenomenal McGufiin — to the platform’s level. His 
three associates, who had been watching his movements 
with breathless suspense, now rushed forward, and in 
less time than it takes to tell it he was handcuffed and 
securely thonged. 

“ Not a word,” said Harry, not a single lisp, or you 
are a dead man.” Harry had had one bitter experience 


378 


THREE VILLI AHS CAPTURED. 


of loitering, after capturing old Hinchey at Cinapolis, 
and now he proposed to act promptly. Accordingly 
McGuffin was hurried off toward the Hampton jail 
between Harry and the Inimitable, while Tobs and 
Richard followed close behind, carrying his satchel. 

After he was securely lodged inside the jail, and saw 
that Tobs was one of his captors, he broke down entirely, 
and begged piteously for his life. 

“ Hi ’ave been waiting a good many years, you know,” 
said Tobs, “ for this time to come.” 

“ I never did you any harm, Tobs,” groaned the Phe- 
nomenal McGuffin. 

“ You stole three thousand dollars from me, han Hi 
’ave known hit hall halong, but Hi suppose you think 
you paid the debt, you know, when you gave old Hin- 
chey five thousand dollars to throw me hover the cliff.” 

McGuffin whimpered like a cur, and said he would 
tell everything if they would spare his life. 

Harry said: “Your life, sir, is in no immediate 
peril, and you certainly can lighten your own crime 
in a measure, at least in our estimation, by giving such 
evidence as will enable us to find your brother, old 
Hinchey.” 

“ Who sent that telegram to you?” asked Willets, 
who was standing near by. 

“ Harlan Barretson, and he is just as deep in as any 
of us,” whiningly replied McGuffin. 

“ Where is he now ?” inquired Richard. 

“ Both he and my brother Hinchey are at the cave. 
Oh, gentlemen, spare me. I will tell everything, and I 
want you to tell the judge I should go free.” 

“ Come on, gentlemen,” said Richard, “ I know all 
too well where the cave is.” 

“ If my brother tells you I ever stole anything but 
your money, Tobs, he tells a lie.” 

“ Look here, McGuffin,” said Richard, “ I was a me- 
nial slave to your villainous brother. I was known then 
by the name of Dick Dare, so be careful, or your veracity 
will be questioned.” 

At this our four friends withdrew, leaving the Phe- 
nomenal groaning in the anguish of his sins that had 
overtaken him. 


THREE VILLIAXS CAPTURED. 


379 


“Wait a moment,” said the Inimitable, as the jailor 
was about to lock the heavy fastenings. Pushing the 
door open a little, Willets thrust his sandy-coated head 
inside, and said: “Isay, my charming and submissive 
captive, how would you like to run for Congress in the 
second district ? Or, perhaps, you would like to have 
your fortune told first, hey ?” 

With this parting salute they left the Phenomenal, 
and started for the cave. They made a circuitous route, 
and approached it very cautiously. When they were 
within about fifty yards of the rendezvous, Harry called 
a halt, and after telling them to await his return, crawled 
with cat-like stealth forward to reconnoiter. 

When he drew near, he heard the indistinct hum of 
conversation. Finally he heard old Hinchey say, “ I 
guess my dear brother did not get the message in time, 
or he would be here before this.” 

Carefully retreating to his companions, Harry gave 
the order to move on. A half hour’s careful creeping 
through the bushes brought them all close up to the 
cave. 

A light was burning fretfully, and by its glare they 
could see the two forms within stretched out at full 
length, seemingly fast asleep. Old Hinchey undoubtedly 
was, for he snored most unmercifully, but this very evi- 
dence of his sleeping no doubt kept his companion from 
enjoying an interrupted repose. 

Richard carefully removed some boards that were 
unfastened, and in a moment more the two sleepers had 
four determined and brave men looking down at them. 

The thongs were then made ready. Richard and 
Willets each had strong slip-noosed cords in their hands, 
and Harry stood with a loaded revolver in either hand. 
At a signal from him, a noose was carefully slipped 
around the sleeping men’s arms, and then, at the second 
signal, quickly and tightly drawn. The sleepers awoke,, 
and in their bewilderment could hardly comprehend 
their situation. 

Finally, however, they realized their condition and 
then their cursing knew no bounds. But all the cursi ng 
they could do, availed them nothing. They were hurried 


380 


PARTED FOREVER. 


back to Hampton, and all three of the captives were 
heavily chained. 

The morning of the following day broke clear and 
bright, and not a soul in Hampton knew of the victory 
against evil doers, which one night had brought forth. 

Harry Baine sent a message to Chicago, addressed to 
Lester, care of Horatio Westover, and ordered it to be 
delivered at once. 

The two detectives, Burt Lester and Bob Braafield, 
had just seated themselves in the spacious dining room 
at the Tremont, when Lawyer Westover approached them 
with an eager look of suspense on his face. 

The greetings were exchanged, and the telegram 
handed to Burt, who, hastily breaking the seal, read : 

“ Lester, care of Horatio Westover, 

“ Chicago, Illinois : 

“ Old Hinchey, McGuffin and Barretson await your 
pleasure in the Hampton Bridewell. 

“ Harry Baine.’ 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

PARTED FOREVER. 

I MAGINATION is the focus rays of all our percep- 
tive powers. It sees brighter pictures than were 
ever painted on canvas or written within the lid 
of fiction. 

The brush fails the artists softest touch and his richest 
thought, so, also, words fail to express the deepest 
pathos and the richest ideas of the author. 

The reader may be able to imagine the surprise and 
pleasure of the two detectives when Harry Baine’s tele- 
gram was read, but words cannot express them. Mr. 
Westover was made acquainted wiith the facts learned 
by Burt the previous evening, and he fully shared in 


381 


v 

PARTED EOREYER. 

the happy anticipation of a speedy close of the tedious 
case. 

A message was at once sent to our old friend Stephen 
Baine, requesting his presence in Chicago. As to the 
three notorious prisoners, we will not pause here longer 
than to say that Harlan Barretson was given over to 
the English detective, Bob Bradfield, who at once started 
for England with him. Old Hinchey and the Phenom- 
enal McGuffin waived examination, and were committed 
for trial. 

The days rolled quickly on, and another week had 
almost joined company with the past before Burt, the 
detective, in company with Uncle Stephen Baine and 
Lawyer Westover, set out for Covesville. 

The tediousness of the all-night ride in a crowded 
railway coach we will leave them to endure alone, while 
we will wing our way through space and with the shades 
of evening that hover between day and twilight descend 
into the Campus grounds at Chalmer University. i 

’Tis Friday night again. Only one week since Lin 
took his first ride with Lillie Baine into Eden, as he 
termed it, and from which, like Adam, he was speedily 
banished. 

The week had been oppressively long to Lillie, for 
she felt very unhappy. Lin Brinkerhoff has never con- 
descended to speak to her since their ride. 

“ Is it possible,” she soliloquized, ‘‘that true and pure 
affection could so quickly turn to indifference, and even 
scorn ? No, no ; Lin thought he was in earnest, but he 
was not. His infatuation was seasoned too much with 
selfishness. Had I told him a falsehood his selfish 
nature would have been satisfied. But I do not and 
cannot love him, except as a sister, and why could he 
not have seen as much, and been satisfied. The promise 
I made, to ever show him the kindness of a true friend, 
I will keep. Poor, unbelieving Lin, how I wish he 
would forsake his skepticism ; throw aside his philos- 
ophies, and become a good, true Christian man ! How 
different,” she thought, “was Pen Pembrooke. I don’t 
care if he has criticized me unmercifully to Lin, he no 
doubt was candid in what he thought.” 


382 


PARTED FOREVER. 


While Lillie Baine, in the solitude of her room, was 
thus musing to herself, quite a spirited conversation 
was going on between those who were occupying her 
thoughts. 

“ Philosophical reasoning, my dear triend,” Pen was 
saying, “ is often faulty.” 

“ You said a moment ago,” responded Lin, “ that rea- 
son was divine and come from the immortal part of our 
being.” 

“ Nevertheless, replied Pen, “ such reasoning as you 
resort to, clouds and veils over the truth with its falla- 
ciousness.” 

“But,” retorted Lin, “if reason is divine, it ought to 
be able to grasp the truth. The fact is, Pen, my boy,” 
Lin went on, “there is a wide-spread belief in the world 
— I cannot say it is universal — that some kind of a re- 
ligious creed is a necessity, Our ancestors, away back 
thousands of years ago, were afflicted with the same be- 
lief. Hence they built altars, even in the morning of 
existence, and worshipped first one thing and then an- 
other, on down through the cycles of time. Sometimes 
they worshipped a golden calf, and sometimes something 
else. Perpetually they w'ere changing their idols, and 
even in these latter times the God of one man’s creed 
and belief is not satisfactory nor acceptable to his neigh- 
bor.” 

“ I found an extract the other day, my dear Lin,” 
said Pen, with great earnestness. “ It is taken from the 
writings of Hamilton, a philosopher of some note.” 

“I know of him,” replied Lin, “and have just sent 
for his work called “ Philosophy of the Condition.” 

“Exactly,” replied Pen, “that is the very work this 
extract is taken from. I have it in my scrap book, and 
will read it to you. Here is what he says : ‘There are 
two sorts of ignorance ; we start from the one, we repose 
in the other ; they are the goals from which and to which 
we tend ; and the pursuit of knowledge is but a course 
between two ignorances, as human life is itself only a 
traveling from grave to grave. The highest reach of hu- 
man science is the scientific recognition of human igno- 
rance.’ ” 


PARTED FOREVER. 


383 


“Now, Lin, this plainly expresses the outcome of all 
sincere philosophers. Their writings, as a rule, are but 
the expressions of darkly clouded, bewildered intellects. 
They seek to account for the workings of an Infinite 
Being by finite reasoning, and when they come to bibli- 
cal facts that they cannot account for, they hedge them- 
selves behind the bulwark of disbelief. I will freely ad- 
mit,” continued Pen, “ that there are many things which 
I do not understand within the leaves of the Bible, but it 
bears unmistakable marks of its divinity, and as such I 
accept it as the inspired word of God. Men have died 
cruel death, because of their religious convictions. 
Christ our Saviour was crucified, but he rose from the 
grave in which he slept, and came forth fulfilling proph- 
ecies and bearing witness to the truth of the Bible. 
While it is true that ‘we see through a glass darkly,’ yet, 
my dear Lin, it is better than the Egyptian darkness of 
doubt through which you are groping your way blindly, 
with no hope, no faith, no expectation of the breaking 
dawn of eternity. Their doubts will be unknown, and 
all clouds and mysteries will be cleared from our hori- 
zon.” 

Here Pen ceased talking, for he saw what he had 
vainly looked for these many, many months. Two great 
tears were trembling on Lin Brinkerhoff s cheek. His 
voice was husky as he replied : 

“ Pen, you are little aware of how helpless I at times 
feel. I will humble my pride and confess that my dis- 
belief makes me very miserable. Like a lonely mariner 
philosophic studies have decoyed me far out at sea. The 
boundless space around is like the pathless ocean, and I 
the mariner, have wearily floundered on and on, without 
compass or chart. Philosophy has told me for years, in 
midnight whisperings, in the morning and evening sun- 
light, in the blustry wintry winds, that there was no safe 
harbor of faith, and no such thing as casting the anchor 
of hope. That all was a myth and a tradition.” Here 
Lin paused. He was unable to say more, but bowing 
his head on his hands, wept like a child. 

“ Ah, Lin,” said Pen with great emotion, “confess 
your ignorance and acknowledge your finite ability to 


384 


PARTED FOREVER. 


be subordinate to His who said, ‘Blessed are they that 
weep, for they shall be comforted.’ Throw aside the 
fallacies of your proud intellect, and turn your face 
toward God.” 

Lin rose from his chair and turned away his face. 
Neither spoke a word, and for a full hour he walked the 
room, wrapt in deep meditation. 

At last he approached Pen, and said in a penitent voice, 
“To-morrow r , my old friend, will be twenty-one years 
since we were born into this world at the little village 
of Hampton. You started out differently from what I 
did. You believed there was a God, and I cannot, to- 
night, remember when I did not disbelieve. Oh, that I 
had possessed your faith in a Saviour, instead of worship- 
ing my ambition ! I have been going heedlessly and 
blindly on, my pride asserting that my own reason was 
a sufficient guide, and at last it has lead me to the bar- 
ren coast of despair. I look about me and see the ruin- 
ous wreck of a false, bewildering and benighting phil- 
osophy.” 

His proud spirit was at last humbled, and falling on 
his knees he sobbed forth his first prayer to the true and 
living God, the author and finisher of all good works. 
He fervently prayed that he might never again become 
entangled in the philosophy that had so masked and 
blinded him, and that its gilded fruits, that had ever 
turned to bitterness in his hands, might never be plucked 
by others. He asked for strength to throw aside forever 
the doubtful conjectures and the metaphysical abstrac- 
tions that had so long hovered about and engulfed him 
in their gloomy shadow's. 

Pen was greatly moved, and remembered with a new- 
meaning the words, “ There is more joy in Heaven over 
one sinner that repenteth, than over the ninety and nine 
that go not astray.” 

Long into the night these two, now friends in truth, 
conversed. Lin was not one to do things by halves, and 
he frankly confessed to Pen his love for Lillie Baine, 
and how only a few evenings before she had rejected 
him. He also, through teara of humbled pride, told him 
how wickedly he had planned to keep him and Lillie 


PARTED FOREVER/ 


385 


Baine from being friends, and, said he," “ there is another 
misdeed of youth, dear Pen, that weighs heavily on me. 
The deed was committed nine long years ago, and mis- 
erable years, indeed, have they been to me. 

“ The melancholy sighing of the dismal winds have 
seemed, during all these years, my fittest companions. 
Should I tell you what misdeed it was you would love 
me less and hate me more, so I will pray that you may 
never know. Those, however, that were injured by my 
sin shall be made whole, and the clouds of suspicions 
which have at times hung like a pall of gloom over the 
innocent, shall be cleared away.” 

Good nights were then exchanged, and the angel of 
love that guards the children of men through the sleep- 
ing hours of night, saw a kneeling form in either room, 
and with joy listened to them both praying to the same 
God. 

The morning came tardily on. A misty rain was 
falling from the lowering clouds, that seemed no higher 
up than the tallest tree tops and tapering church spires. 
Saturday, too, the holiday of the week. The breakfast 
hour was over, and the inmates of the dormitories were 
in their rooms again. 

Charlie and Freddie Bethel dropped in to make a 
neighborly call with their cousin, Penfield Pembrooke. 
Lin sat, as many another student did that morning, look- 
ing out of the window down on the wet grass in the 
campus^ — before their callers came he had been talking 
to Pen cheerfully and hopefully of the faith that had 
dawned within him, and together they had been planning 
how best to celebrate their twenty-first birthday. 

Presently some neighboring room-mate dropped in 
to pass the time of day, and announced the startling in- 
telligence that “ it was a rainy, dark morning.” Lin left 
the entertaining of callers to Pen, and stared abstract- 
edly out at the dismal clouds. So dark, indeed, were 
they, that he could see but indistinctly across the grounds. 
Those words of Pen’s, “ You have not graduated yet,” 
kept climbing up on top of all other thoughts, and made 
him nervous and miserable. Presently he started up and 
pointed out of the window. Pen observed the gesture, 
17 


386 


PARTED FOREVER. 


and looking across the campus lawn discovered three 
men coming through the gate. 

“ Do you see them ?” shouted Lin. “ They are com- 
ing here to this very room. Coming for me !” 

Pen looked with astonishment at his room-mate and 
saw that his every feature betokened wild excitement. 
His eyes were distended, and the color had faded from 
his face. 

“ I am lost !” shrieked Lin, in a mad frenzy, “ for- 
ever lost ! The ambition of my boyhood is never to be 
realized. Ah !” cried he, turning to Pen, “ your words 
were prophetic — I never will, no, never, never, gradu- 
ate !” 

His frightful look and writhing gestures were such 
as might become a raving maniac. Indeed Pen shared 
the belief of the others present that Lin had lost his 
reason. Across the campus grounds came the three 
men, muffled up with huge rubber coats that came well 
down to the tops of their mud besplashed boots. 

Sure enough, they inquired for one Lin Brinkerhoff. 
A moment more they were shown into the room. Then 
it was that Lin ceased his raving, and gave way to tears. 
Presently he looked up, though not a word had been 
spoken by either of the three new comers. He brushed 
his tears away, and advancing to the old gentleman, 
said, in a deep, husky voice : 

“ Mr. Stephen Baine, almost nine years ago, when I 
was only a lad of twelve, I stole from you fourteen 
thousand dollars. I do not tell you this as news, for 
when I first saw you coming through the college grounds 
something told me that you knew all. In my trunk I 
have your old satchel. Your money has been invested, 
and I have not only all the principal, but nearly every 
cent of the interest it has earned.” 

“ You, then,” said Mr. Baine, “are the thief ?” 

“ I am, indeed, the thief,” answered Lin. “I alone. 
No one else must be implicated. To one person, my 
sister Edith, I confided my secret, but promised her that 
every cent should be returned so soon as I graduated. 
Alas, sirs, that was the vain ambition that prompted the 
act. Think for a moment of my youth. Many persons 


PAETED FOEEYEE. 


387 


in riper years have been tempted, and yielded to far less 
temptations. When the step was once taken it seemed 
to me, as it does to other men who go astray, that it was 
too late to right the wrong, just then. For months I 
kept the secret all alone. Have I regretted the act ? I re- 
gretted it, sirs, within an hour after it was done, and nei- 
ther by day nor night have I been free from the accursed 
phantom, that with the years has grown more and more 
hideous, and hovered over me like a blighting demon. 
Have you, gentlemen, sons or young brothers ? If so, 
think what they might have done had they been tempted 
as I was, and then deal with me as you see fit, remem- 
bering those lines of Byron’s that have burned themselves 
into my memory, where he says : 

‘ There are crimes, made { 

Venial by the occasion, and temptations, w 
Which nature cannot master or forebear!’ ” 

Pen, through his tears, saw great drops trickling 
down the old man’s face, and down the cheeks of the 
detective and the lawyer, but whether they were drops 
of rain from their hat rims, or tears of sorrow, he never 
knew. 

“ You may,” said the old man, in a husky voice, “ ac- 
company us to our rooms at the hotel.” 

A few moments more and Lin was in readiness. He 
took Pen’s hand, but could not frame or pronounce a 
single syllable. Pen felt his hand tremble as it closely 
clasped his own. Then, bending close to Lin’s ear, he 
said : 

“ I am still your friend and will ever be, and when 
permitted will come to see you. Please God, I will be 
as true to you in adversity as I have ever been in the days 
of prosperity.” 

Thus they parted — parted forever. 


388 


AT LAST. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

AT LAST. 

O LD Hinchey and his brother Charles lay in prison 
until the court session came around. The Phe- 
nomenal McGuffin lost no opportunity to speak 
in his own cause, by denouncing his brother as the real 
transgressor. Like a whimpering cur, he, in spirit, 
crawled in the dust at any one’s feet who would listen 
to his begging for mercy. 

Old Hinchey pursued a different course. He seldom 
spoke to any one. Day by day he grew weaker and 
weaker, and bleached out whiter and whiter. His eyes 
grew larger as his cheeks sank in. From the time of 
his capture, he seemed to have given up all hope of 
anything better than the punishment that awaited 
him. 

Sometimes he would crouch down in his cell — in the 
very darkest corner — bow his head upon his hands, and 
never stir for hours. Like a jaded animal that had been 
chased for days, he seemed completely tired out, and 
even glad that the wearying chase was over. His sub- 
mission was one of resignation. A low mumble some- 
times escaped him, but whether it came from penitent 
thoughts or not, no one ever knew. 

The day before the trial came on, McGuffin thinking, 
no doubt, it would benefit his cause, returned to Tobs 
his three thousand dollars and interest for one-and- 
twenty years. 

When Tobs received it, he remarked, in his “Hing- 
lish ” way, “ Hi thought Hi would get hit hafter awhile 
you know.” 

“ Sure, Mister McGuffin,” said old Tim, who was 
present, “ and wasn’t I afther tellin’ on ye’s many a 
time that ye would be the death of yourself yet, I don’t 
know ?” 

The morning of the trial finally came on, and the 
case was called. It lasted the entire week, but the twelve' 


AT LAST. 


389 


jurors made quick work in agreeing on the verdict of 
guilty. Then ihe judge, after he had cleared his throat a 
great many times, said : 

“Of all the wretched creatures steeped in all forms 
of crime, with whom I have had to deal, the Messers 
McGuffin, Henry and Charles, are the deepest-dyed. 
Both are now old men, yet from their infancy almost, 
have they been offenders of the law. They have in- 
fested all classes of society under their many garbs. One 
has spilled the blood of innocent men and attempted 
others ; while the other has stood ready with an open 
purse to pay for these wicked deeds. I can discover no 
difference in the enormity of their crimes. ” 

When these words were uttered, C. McGuffin groan- 
ed aloud. Until then he had supposed that he would be 
sentenced lightly, because of his evidence against his 
brother. He was forgetting that evidence against them 
both was so plentiful as to be almost at a discount. 

“ Twelve jurors,” continued the judge, “have found 
both these prisoners guilty of the crimes of which they 
have been accused. It therefore becomes my unpleasant 
duty to sentence both to imprisonment in the peniten- 
tiary for a term of ninty-nine years, or during their 
natural lives, at hard manual labor.” 

It was a very affecting scene to see these two broth- 
ers marching side by side out along the corridors of the 
court room, and away to their doomed life. Side by side 
they trudged along through the streets toward the prison 
in sullen silence, stooped with age and loaded down 
with past misdeeds. Their gray locks were blown about 
by the evening wind, which seemed, as it sighed through 
the tree tops, to be breathing forth a melancholy dirge, 
and repeating in its dismal chant, “ Win-ning winds — 
no-longer ; win-ning winds — no-longer.” 

Pen was noticeably saddened by the sight, and was 
glad the case was over. He had been present during the 
session as a witness, as was also Richard and the Inim- 
itable Edward Willets. 

As they walked down the street toward the depot, 
preparatory to returning home, Willets, observing Pen’s 
sad face, .said : 

“ Cheer up, cheer up, my charming friend, cheer up 


390 


AT LAST. 


The sentence, sir, that you have heard passed is in every 
way in perfect keeping- with the eternal fitness of 
things/' 

“ I know it is right,” replied Pen, “ to send these two 
brothers, old men as they are, where they can do no 
more crime, Society demands it, but really it looks 
hard. These brothers are now both whitened over with 
the frosts of age. How different, Mr. Willets, how di - 
ferent it might have been.” 

“True, sir, very true,” replied the Inimitable, “but 
let me say to you. Pen, you, who in youth was my charm- 
ing companion — for a short time, that is, — as also in 
manhood, you are my pride, that these two fiends have 
collectively, understand me, sir, I say collectively, com- 
mitted a long calendar of crimes, so lengthy, indeed, 
that there is not a single docket in the state large enough 
to contain them, and because of these, they are doomed 
— fine word, that, especially when used in connection 
with sentenced criminals — and as Whittier has most 
graphically and poetically said : 

4 For this they share a felon's cell, 

That fittest earthly type of hell.’ 

Let me see,” the Inimitable went on, “the last time 
before this that you saw the Phenomenal McGuffin, you 
were in a box underneath his wagon, and your next 
meeting was here when the tables were slightly turned, 
he being in the box and underneath his sentence. Slight 
difference, my charming fellow, slight difference in your 
favor.” 

When they shook hands at parting, it was with a 
promise, on Pen’s part, that he would at an early day 
make his old home at Hampton a visit, and during his 
sojourn there would accept the Inimitable’s hospitali- 
ties. 

On reaching home at Grandfather Pembrooke’s Pen 
found a letter awaiting him. He hastily broke the seal, 
and saw that it was from Lin, and read as follows : 

‘Dear Pen : 

“Iwill not name the place from whence I write, for if 
I did, it would be but a point of the compass indicating 


AT LAST. 


391 


my whereabouts. Hence, not wishing to reveal my place 
of retreat I omit it. I do not wish to be known by those 
who have known me in past years, or even by them re- 
membered. 

“ I learned that you delivered the Valedictory Address, 
and I cannot refrain from telling you how glad I am that 
the honor fell to so worthy a student. Old Mr. Baine 
said he did not have the heart to arrest me ; and after his 
money was returned to him, kindly let me go away, — 
away, oh ! so far from every one. He little thought I 
would bury myself so completely as I have. A burial, 
dear Pen, from which there is no resurrection. 

“ For years the cloud of my guilt tremblingly hung 
just over me, and at last it broke, tarnishing forever my 
name. Mr. Baine gave me his promise that mother and 
Edith should never want, and hence I am relieved from 
that worry. My old mother’s loss of myself, her only 
son, is nobody’s gain. I am but suffering the price of 
my sins. 

“ Out of the little window in front of me lies a 
church-yard with many sunken graves. The white 
slabs of marble record whose dust it is that sleeps be- 
low. But, in a few years — only a few, dear Pen, — and 
the marble slabs will also crumble away, the records of 
the sleeping be lost to man, and even their memories 
fade into a forgotten past. It tells me that the hopeful, 
the ambitious, the proud, the despondent, the innocent, 
the guilty, the wounded and broken-hearted, alike will, 
at last, meet on one common level and mingle their dust 
in one common clay. 

‘ Qh ! why should the spirit of mortal be proud ?’ 

“ Good-by, dear Pen, good-by. The one thing I wanted 
to say, has not yet been said, ‘ Tell Lillie in her happi- 
ness to sometime join you in thinking of me, the err- 
ing wanderer, who will strive on and on with a firm 
hope of meeting you both where parting comes no 
more. Thus do I pay the price of Mammon and a vain 
ambition. 

“ Farewell, dear Pen, farewell, 

“ Pin Brj.nkerhoff.” 


392 


AT LAST. 


The summer wore itself away until the ripest weeks 
were reached, and with them came a visitor to the old 
New England home, an old friend of ours, Burt Lester. 

Kittie Pembrooke, like the last of the summer weeks, 
was in the ripeness of her beauty. On a pleasant sunny 
morning, a few days after his arrival, they were in the 
music room. She had been playing some favorite pieces 
for him, and when the last notes of her rich full voice 
died away, Burt repeated : 

“ Awake, and let me dream again.” 

“ And still you remember,” said Kittie, laughing low 
and musical, “ that old song.” 

Burt looked tenderly down at the handsome woman 
by his side, and knew, as he had known for years, that 
she was indeed noble and true. Then reaching out his 
arms to her, he said, passionately, “ Kittie, my own love, 
would you have me forget them ?” 

For an answ T er she placed her hands in his, nor re- 
sisted when he encircled her slender waist with his 
strong arm. When a little later they walked out into 
the warm sunlight, and down through the lawn, arm-in- 
arm, Kittie looks up beamingly into her companion’s 
radiant face, and mischievously inquires, “ Was this, 
dear Burt, the other question you were going to ask ?” 
He remembers her allusion, and quickly replies, “Yes, 
my darling — the case has developed.” 

In the November following, on Thanksgiving Day, 
the New England holiday of the year, they were mar- 
ried. Uncle Stephen Baine and family, including 
Harry and his patient wife, poor blind Emily, were 
'there. Lillie Baine and little Bertha Pembrooke soon 
became warm friends. Bertha in great confidence con- 
fesses to Lillie that she can’t help thinking lots of her 
because brother Pen does. 

This brings the color quickly to Lillie’s face, and 
when Pen, coming up just then, inquires what makes 
her face so red, she positively refuses to tell him. 
Richard, the old bachelor, who is sitting near, good- 
naturedly laughs and says that he himself will tell Pen 
by and by. 


AT LAST 


393 


The whirring spindles in the loom of time, like the 
sands of life, go ceaselessly on. The winter at last gives 
way to spring, and with it comes the April showers and 
early blossoms. 

A good many letters have passed between Greenwood 
and Dairyfield Farm, Pen insists, however, that no 
stronger adjective than “ friendship ” can be applied to 
them. 

Old Grandfather Pembrooke takes Pen’s hand in his, 
and, with a knowing look, good-naturedly asks: “Ah, 
Pen, are you quite sure of what you say?” 

“To be candid, grandfather,” replies Pen, confusedly, 
as he smoothed back the snowy locks from the old man’s 
brow and stroked his long white beard, “I am not real 
sure.” 

Shall we leave them thus ? Pen Pembrooke and Lillie 
Baine absorbed in love’s sweet dream of happiness ? Or, 
shall we go farther, and tell how, on a certain day, a few 
months later, there was a happy wedding at Dairyfield 
Farm ? 

Yes, thus it was, and Pen’s wish that he might row 
Lillie Baine over the stream of life, became a reality. 

Our parting wish to them is, that singing birds may 
ever warble their sweetest notes, as they perch on the 
vining ivy beneath their window ; and that the gentle 
winds of summer and the melancholy winds of winter 
will ever be Winning Winds to win them away from the 
gloaming shadows toward the sunny side. 

Such is Life : 

Between the sunlight the shadows come, 

Between the shadows the sunlight falls. 


THE END. 


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